Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

'Work--work--work, In the dull December light, And work--work--work, When the weather is warm and bright-- While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs And twit me with the Spring.

'Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-- With the sky above my head, And the gra.s.s beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!'

With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- St.i.tch--st.i.tch--st.i.tch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its tone could reach the Rich!

She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER

The stars are with the voyager, Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time, The sun will never fail, But follow, follow, round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be.

Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light, The moon will veil her in the shade, The sun will set at night; The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away, So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day.

RUTH

She stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.

On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened--such a blush In the midst of brown was born-- Like red poppies grown with corn.

Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright.

And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim:-- Thus she stood amid the stooks, Praising G.o.d with sweetest looks:--

Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come Share my harvest and my home.

IVRY

LORD MACAULAY

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Roch.e.l.le, our own Roch.e.l.le, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, 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, We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array; With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land; And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand: And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled flood, And good Coligni's h.o.a.ry hair all dabbled with his blood; And we cried unto the living G.o.d, who rules the fate of war, To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The king is come to marshal us, all in his armour drest; And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.

He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye; 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, 'G.o.d 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 b.l.o.o.d.y 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 Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.

The fiery Duke is p.r.i.c.king fast across St. Andre's plain, With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.

Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France, Charge for the golden lilies--upon them with the lance!

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest, A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest; And in they burst, and on they rushed, while, like a guiding-star, Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, G.o.d be praised, the day is ours! Mayenne hath turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish Count is slain.

Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale; The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.

And then we thought on vengeance, and all along our van, 'Remember St. Bartholomew,' was pa.s.sed from man to man; But out spake gentle Henry: 'No Frenchman is my foe: Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'

Oh! was there ever such a knight, in friendship or in war, As our sovereign lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre!

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day; And many a lordly banner G.o.d gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight; And the good lord of Rosny hath ta'en the cornet white.

Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en, 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 G.o.d hath humbled the proud house which wrought His church such woe.

Then on the ground, while trumpets sound their loudest points of war, Fling the red shreds, a foot-cloth 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 ma.s.s for thy poor spearmen's souls!

Ho! gallant n.o.bles of the League, look that your arms be bright; Ho! burghers of Saint Genevieve, keep watch and ward to-night.

For our G.o.d hath crushed the tyrant, our G.o.d hath raised the slave, And mocked the counsel of the wise, and the valour of the brave.

Then glory to His holy name, from whom all glories are; And glory to our sovereign lord, King Henry of Navarre.

THE ARMADA

Attend, all ye who list to hear our n.o.ble England's praise: I sing of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days, When that great fleet invincible, against her bore, in vain, The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts in Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer's day, There came a gallant merchant ship full sail to Plymouth bay; The crew had seen Castile's black fleet, beyond Aurigny's isle, At earliest twilight, on the waves, lie heaving many a mile.

At sunrise she escaped their van, by G.o.d's especial grace; And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.

Forthwith a guard, at every gun, was placed along the wall; The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgecombe's lofty hall; Many a light fishing bark put out, to pry along the coast; And with loose rein, and b.l.o.o.d.y spur, rode inland many a post.