Said the Cornishman: "That's no a 'shillalah,' ye scamp! Looaks to I like Diogenes 'ere wi' is laamp,

Searchin' haard fur a 'onest maan.”

Muttered Pat, "phat ye say,

Fur he's lookin' my way,

"Faith, that is true,"

And by the same favor don't recognize you!"

"Shust vait unt I dolt you," said Hans; "vat is der matter;
It vas von uf dem mermaits coomed ouwd fun der vater;
Unt she hat nodding on; unt der vintry vind plows,
Unt fur shame, unt fur pidy,

She vent to der cidy,

Unt buyed her a suit fun der reaty-made clo's.”

"Me no sabee you Foleners; too muchee talkee!
You no likee Idol, you heap takee walkee.
Him allee some Chinaman velly big Joshee.
Him Unclee Sam gal-ee;

Catch um lain, no umblalee!

Heap velly big shirtee-me no likee washee!"

"Oh!" cried Sambo amazed: "Dat's de cullud man's Lor'!
He's cum back to de earf; somefin he's lookin' for.
Allus knowed by de halo surroundin' he's brow;
Jess you looken dat crown!

Jess you looken dat gown!

Lor' 'a massy, I knows I's gone nigga' now!"

Said the Yankee: "I've heerd ye discussin' her figger;
And I reckon you strangers haint seen nuthing bigger.
Wall, I haint much on boastin' but I'll go my pile.
When you furreners cum

You'll find her to hum!

Dew I mean what I say? Wall, somewhat-I should smile!"

ARNOLD WINKELREID

"Make way for Liberty!"-he cried;
Made way for Liberty, and died!
In arms the Austrian phalanx stood,

James Montgmery.

A living wall, a human wood!
Impregnable their front appears,
All horrent with projected spears,
Opposed to these, a hovering band
Contended for their fatherland;

Peasants, whose new-found strength had broke

From manly necks the ignoble yoke:

Marshalled once more at Freedom's call,

They came to conquer or to fall.

And now the work of life and death
Hung in the passing of a breath;
The fire of conflict burned within;
The battle trembled to begin;

Yet, while the Austrians held their ground,
Point for attack was nowhere found,
Where'er the impatient Switzers gazed,
The unbroken line of lances blazed;
That line 'twere suicide to meet
And perish at their tyrant's feet.
How could they rest within their graves,
To leave their home the haunts of slaves?
Would they not feel their children tread
With clanking chains, above their head?

It must not be: this day, this hour,
Annihilates the invaders' power!
All Switzerland is in the field,
She will not fly; she cannot yield;
She must not fall; her better fate
Here gives her an immortal date.
Few were the numbers she could boast;
But every freeman was a host,

And felt as 'twere a secret known

That one should turn the scale alone;

While each unto himself was he

On whose sole arm hung victory.

It did depend on one, indeed;
Behold him-Arnold Winkelreid;

There sounds not to the trump of Fame
The echo of a nobler name.

Unmarked, he stood among the throng,
In rumination deep and long,

Till you might see, with sudden grace,
The very thought come o'er his face;
And, by the motion of his form,
Anticipate the bursting storm;

And, by the uplifting of his brow,

Tell where the bolt would strike and how.

But 'twas no sooner thought than done-
The field was in a moment won!
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried;
Then ran with arms extended wide,
As if his dearest friend to clasp;
Ten spears he swept within his grasp.
"Make way for Liberty!" he cried;
Their keen points met from side to side,
He bowed amongst them like a tree,
And thus made way for Liberty.

Swift to the breach his comrades fly-
"Make way for Liberty!" they cry;
And through the Austrian phalanx dart,
As rushed the spears through Arnold's heart;
While, instantaneous as his fall,

Rout, ruin, panic scattered all:

An earthquake could not overthrow

A city with a surer blow.

Thus Switzerland again was free;

Thus death made way for Liberty.

BUNKER HILL

George H. Calvert.

"Not yet, not yet; steady, steady!"

On came the foe, in even line:

Nearer and nearer to thrice paces nine.
We looked into their eyes. "Ready!"

A sheet of flame! A roll of death!

They fell by scores; we held our breath!
Then nearer still they came;

Another sheet of flame!

And brave men fled who never fled before.
Immortal fight!
Foreshadowing flight

Back to the astounded shore.

Quickly they rallied, reinforced.
Mid louder roar of ship's artillery,

And bursting bombs and whistling musketry
And shouts and groans, anear, afar,

All the new din of dreadful war,

Through their broad bosoms calmly coursed
The blood of those stout farmers, aiming
For freedom, manhood's birthrights claiming
Onward once more they came:

Another sheet of deathful flame!
Another and another still;

They broke, they fled:
Again they sped

Down the green, bloody hill.

Howe, Burgoyne, Clinton, Gage,
Stormed with commander's rage.

Into each emptied barge

They crowd fresh men for a new charge
Up that great hill.
Again their gallant blood we spill;
That volley was the last:

Our powder failed.

On three sides fast

The foe pressed in; nor quailed

A man. Their barrels empty, with musket-stocks They fought and gave death-dealing knocks,

Till Prescott ordered the retreat.

Then Warren fell; and through a leaden sleet,
From Bunker Hill and Breed,

Stark, Putnam, Pomeroy, Knowlton, Read,

Led off the remnant of those heroes true,
The foe too shattered to pursue,

The ground they gained; but we
The victory.

The tidings of that chosen band
Flowed in a wave of power
Over the shaken, anxious land,
To men, to man, a sudden dower.
From that staunch, beaming hour
History took a fresh, higher start;

And when the speeding messenger, that bare
The news that strengthened every heart,
Met near the Delaware
Riding to take command,

The leader, who had just been named,
Who was to be so famed,

The steadfast, earnest Washington
With hand uplifted cries,

His great soul flashing to his eyes,

"Our liberties are safe; the cause is won,"

A thankful look he cast to heaven, and then

His steed he spurned, in haste to lead such noble men.

V. Lyric Poetry

The usual definition of a lyric given in different dictionaries seems to coincide with this one statement at least; namely, a poem which may be set to music, or a poem sung with the lyre accompaniment. Consequently the word lyric comes from the word lyre, suggesting music or musical rhythm. Therefore the poem must have primarily a rhythmic, musical pulsation. A lyric is the universal expression of the individual idea in rhythmic form. It is always written in the first person, and must be written about a universal thing. It is the individual expression of a concrete idea, that is, if we take for example Wordsworth's poem, "To the Cuckoo." Should the speaker