100.- The Height of the Ridiculous. I wrote some lines once on a time And thought, as usual, men would say "These to the printer," I exclaimed; "There'll be the devil' to pay." He took the paper, and I watched, Was all upon the grin. 1 devil. To understand this pun, | errands and does chores, is called pupils should know that the boy "the printer's devil," - not a very in the printing office, who runs of complimentary name. He read the next; the grin grew broad, He read the third; a chuckling noise The fourth, he broke into a roar; Ten days and nights, with sleepless eye, As funny as I can. HOLMES. 101.-The Old Continentals. This very original poem, by Guy H. McMaster of New York (18291887), was called by its author Carmen Bellicosum ("Song of War"). It may be taken, not as referring to any particular battle of the Revolutionary War, but as a general description of the Continental soldiers of that period. In their ragged regimentals Yielding not. When the Grenadiers were lunging,' And like hail fell the plunging Cannon shot: 1 lunging, thrusting with bayonets. When the files Of the Isles,1 From the smoky night encampment, bore the banner of the rampant 8 Unicorn,2 And grummer, grummer, grummer rolled the roll of the drummer, Through the morn! But with eyes to the front all, And the balls whistled deadly, And in streams flashing redly Blazed the fires; As the roar On the shore Swept the strong battle-breakers o'er the green-sodded acres Of the plain; And louder, louder, louder cracked the black gunpowder, Cracking amain!* Cannoneers; And the "villainous saltpeter "2 As the swift Storm-drift, With hot sweeping anger came the Horse-guards' clangor On our flanks. Then higher, higher, higher burned the old-fashioned fire Through the ranks! Then the old-fashioned Colonel His broad sword was swinging, And his brazen throat was ringing Trumpet loud. Then the blue Bullets flew, And the trooper jackets redden at the touch of the leaden Rifle breath. And rounder, rounder, rounder roared the iron sixpounder, 102. — Bingen on the Rhine. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers : There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand; And he said, "I never more shall see my own, my native land. Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine, For I was born at Bingen,1—at Bingen on the Rhine. "Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground, That we fought the battle bravely; and when the day was done, Full many a corpse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun. And midst the dead and dying were some grown old in wars, 1 Bingen (pron. bingʼen). |