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Thus all through merry Islington,

These gambols he did play, And till he came unto the Wash

Of Edmonton so gay.

And there he threw the Wash about
On both sides of the way,
Just like unto a trundling mop,
Or a wild goose at play.

At Edmonton, his loving wife

From balcony espied

Her tender husband, wondering much

To see how he did ride.

Stop, stop, John Gilpin! - Here's the house They all at once did cry;

The dinner waits, and we are tired:

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I came because your horse would come;
And, if I well forebode,

My hat and wig will soon be here;
They are upon the road.

The calender, right glad to find
His friend in merry pin,

Returned him not a single word,

But to the house went in.

Whence straight he came with hat and wig;

A wig that flowed behind,

A hat not much the worse for wear,
Each comely in its kind.

He held them up, and in his turn

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Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw

Her husband posting down

Into the country far away,

She pulled out half-a-crown;

And thus unto the youth she said,
That drove them to the Bell

This shall be yours when you bring back
My husband safe and well.

The youth did ride, and soon did meet
John coming back amain;

Whom in a trice he tried to stop,
By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant,
And gladly would have done,
The frighted steed he frighted more,
And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away

Went postboy at his heels,

The postboy's horse right glad to miss
The lumb'ring of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road,
Thus seeing Gilpin fly,

With postboy scamp'ring in the rear,
They raised the hue and cry: -

Stop thief! stop thief! -
- a highwayman!
Not one of them was mute;

And all and each that passed that way
Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again

Flew open in short space;

The toll-men thinking, as before,
That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too,

For he got first to town;

Nor stopped till where he first got up

He did again get down.

Now let us sing― Long live the king,

And Gilpin, long live he;

And, when he next doth ride abroad,
May I be there to see!

241. WILLIAM FALCONER. 1730-1769. (Manual, p. 359.)

FROM "THE SHIPWRECK."

In vain the cords and axes were prepared,
For now th' audacious seas insult the yard;
High o'er the ship they throw a horrid shade,
And o'er her burst in terrible cascade.
Uplifted on the surge, to heaven she flies,

Her shattered top half-buried in the skies,

Then headlong, plunging, thunders on the ground,
Earth groans! air trembles! and the deeps resound!
Her giant bulk the dread concussion feels,
And quivering with the wound, in torment reels;
So reels, convulsed with agonizing throes,
The bleeding bull beneath the murd'rer's blows.
Again she plunges! hark! a second shock
Tears her strong bottom on the marble rock!
Down on the vale of death, with dismal cries,
The fated victims, shuddering, roll their eyes
In wild despair; while yet another stroke,
With deep convulsion, rends the solid oak;
Till like the mine, in whose infernal cell
The lurking demons of destruction dwell,
At length asunder torn, her frame divides,
And crashing spreads in ruin o'er the tides.

ERASMUS DARWIN. 1731-1802. (Manual, p. 360.)

FROM "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

242. STEEL.

Hail, adamantine STEEL! magnetic Lord!
King of the prow, the ploughshare, and the sword!
True to the pole, by thee the pilot guides

His steady helm amid the struggling tides;

Braves with broad sail th' immeasurable sea,
Cleaves the dark air, and asks no star but thee.
By thee the ploughshare rends the matted plain,
Inhumes in level rows the living grain;
Intrusive forests quit the cultured ground,
And Ceres laughs, with golden fillets crowned.
O'er restless realms, when scowling Discord flings
Her snakes, and loud the din of battle rings;
Expiring strength and vanquished courage feel
Thy arm resistless, adamantine STEEL!

JAMES MACPHERSON. 1738-1796. (Manual, p. 361.)

243. THE Songs of Selma.

Star of descending night! fair is thy light in the west! thou liftest thy unshorn head from thy cloud; thy steps are stately on thy hill. What dost thou behold in the plain? The stormy winds are laid. The murmur of the torrent comes from afar. Roaring waves climb the distant rock. The flies of evening are on their feeble wings; the hum of their course is on the field. What dost thou behold, fair light? But thou dost smile and depart. The waves come with joy around thee: they bathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, thou silent beam! let the light of Ossian's soul arise!

And it does arise in its strength! I behold my departed friends. Their gathering is on Lora, as in the days of other years. Fingal comes like a watery column of mist; his heroes are around. And see the bards of song, gray-haired Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the tuneful voice! the soft complaint of Minona! How are ye changed, my friends, since the days of Selma's feast, when we contended, like gales of spring, as they fly along the hill, and bend by turns the feebly whistling grass!

Minona came forth in her beauty, with downcast look and tearful eye. Her hair flew slowly on the blast, that rushed unfrequent from the hill. The souls of the heroes were sad when she raised the tuneful voice. Often had they seen the grave of Salgar, the dark dwelling of white-bosomed Colma. Colma left alone on the hill, with all her voice of song! Salgar promised to come; but the night descended around. Hear the voice of Colma, when she sat alone on the hill!

Colma. — It is night; I am alone, forlorn on the hill of storms. The wind is heard in the mountain. The torrent pours down the rock. No hut receives me from the rain; forlorn on the hill of winds!

Rise, moon, from behind thy clouds! Stars of the night, arise! Lead me, some light, to the place, where my love rests from the chase alone! his bow near him, unstrung! his dogs panting around him. But here I must sit alone by the rock of the mossy stream. The stream and the wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice of my love. Why delays my Salgar, why the chief of the hill, his promise? Here is the rock, and here the tree! here is the roaring stream! Thou didst promise with night to be here. Ah, whither is my Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from my father; with thee from my brother of pride. Our race have long been foes; we are no foes, O Salgar!

Cease a little while, O wind! stream, be thou silent a while! let my voice be heard around. Let my wanderer hear me! Salgar, it is Colma who calls. Here is the tree, and the rock. Salgar, my

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