Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste Go, tell the night that hides thy face, Or shake his trust in God!' CAMPBELL. IVRY A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre. Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day, flood, And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood; The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest, He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our Lord the King! 'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray, Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.' Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din, A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein. D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain. Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white. The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine. Up with it high; unfurl it wide; that all the host may know How God hath humbled the proud house which wrought His Church such woe. Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest point of war, Fling the red shreds, a footcloth meet for Henry of Navarre. Ho! maidens of Vienna; Ho! matrons of Lucerne ; Weep, weep, and rend your hair for those who never shall return. Ho! Philip, send, for charity, thy Mexican pistoles, That Antwerp monks may sing a mass for thy poor spearmen's souls. Ho! gallant nobles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night. For our God hath crushed the tyrant, our God hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave. MACAULAY. SIR PATRICK SPENS THE king sits in Dunfermline toun, O up and spake an eldern knight, Our king has written a braid letter, The first word that Sir Patrick read, Sae loud loud laughed he; The neist word that Sir Patrick read, The tear blinded his e'e. 'O wha is this has done this deed, And tauld the king o' me, To send us out, at this time of the year, To sail upon the sea?' 'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem; The king's daughter of Noroway, 'Tis we must fetch her hame.' They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn, Wi' a' the speed they may; And they hae landed in Noroway Upon a Wedensday. They hadna been a week, a week In Noroway but twae, When that the lords o' Noroway Began aloud to say: 'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd, And a' our queenis fee.' 'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud! Fu' loud I hear ye lie! 'For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Out o'er the sea wi' me. 'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alake, my master dear, I fear a deadly storm! 'I saw the new moon, late yestreen, |