How quiet sleep the silent waves!
As gentle as an infant's breath,
The gales across their slumbers sweep,
Nor wake that sleep as calm as death.

But see, beneath that glassy breast
The mingling scenes of life arise;
There spring the leafy groves to meet
The blue expanse of upper skies:

And hills uplift them mid the scene,
And herds beneath the bright wave feed
Upon the meadow's mirror'd green,
Or seek repose within the shade.

But look again, — that life has fled,
The breeze has swept too roughly o'er;
The crested wave now rears his head,

Trailing in the wind,
Fuji's smoke
fades into the sky
destination unknown,
just like my own thoughts!

Listen all ye, 'tis the Feast o' St. Stephen,
Mind that ye keep it, this holy even.
Open your door and greet ye the stranger,
For ye mind that the wee Lord had naught but manger.

Mhuire as truagh!
Feed ye the hungry and rest ye the weary,
This ye must do for the sake of Our Mary.
'Tis well that ye mind — ye who sit by the fire —
That the Lord He was born in a dark and cold byre.
Mhuire as truagh!

" Then shall the dust return to the earth as it was ,
And the spirit shall return unto God who gave it . "

She sleeps not where the gladsome Earth
Its dark green growth of verdure waves;
And where the wind's low whispering mirth
Steals o'er the silent graves.

She sleeps not where the wild rose lends
Its fragrance to the morning air;
And where thy form at evening bends
To raise the voice of prayer.

She sleeps not where the wandering wing
Of weary bird will oft repose;

HEARD YE the thunder of battle
Low in the South and afar?
Saw ye the flash of the death-cloud
Crimson on Trafalgar?

Such another day never
England will look on again,
When the battle fought was the hottest,
And the hero of heroes was slain!

For the fleet of France and the force of Spain were gather'd for fight —
A greater than Philip their lord, a new Armada in might;
And the sails were aloft once more in the deep Gaditanian bay,

Heard ye o' the tree o' France,
I watna what 's the name o't;
Around it a' the patriots dance,
Weel Europe kens the fame o't.
It stands where ance the Bastile stood,
A prison built by kings, man,
When Superstition's hellish brood
Kept France in leading strings, man.

Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit,
Its virtues a' can tell, man;
It raises man aboon the brute,
It maks him ken himsel, man.
Gif ance the peasant taste a bit,
He 's greater than a lord, man,
An' wi' the beggar shares a mite
O' a' he can afford, man.

O heard ye of a silly Harper,
Liv'd long in Lochmaben town,
How he did gang to fair England
To steal King Henry's wanton brown,
How he did gang to fair England
To steal King Henry's wanton brown.

But first he gaed to his gudewife
Wi' a' the speed that he cou'd thole:
This wark, quo' he, will never work,
Without a mare that has a foal.

Quo' she, thou has a gude grey mare,
That'll rin o'er hills baith low and hie;
Gae tak' the grey mare in thy hand,
And leave the foal at hame wi' me.

And tak' a halter in thy hose,

Heare ye Virgins, and Ile teach,
What the times of old did preach.
Rosamond was in a Bower
Kept, as Danae in a Tower:
But yet Love (who subtile is)
Crept to that, and came to this.
Be ye lockt up like to these,
Or the rich Hesperides;
Or those Babies in your eyes,
In their Christall Nunneries;
Notwithstanding Love will win,
Or else force a passage in:
And as coy be, as you can,
Gifts will get ye, or the man.

Hear through the morning drums and trumpets sounding,
Rumbling of cannon, tramp of mighty armies;
Then the mist sunders, all the plain disclosing
Scarlet for England.

Batteries roll on, halt, and flashing lightnings
Search out our earthworks, silent and portentous.
Fierce on our right with crimson banners tossing
Their lines spring forward.

Lanyards in hand, Americans and seamen,
Gunners from warships, Lafitte's privateersmen,
Roar out our thunders till the grape and shrapnel
Shriek through their columns.

HEAR THE LEGEND of the Admen
Ere they conquered all creation.

In the Prophylactic forest,
On the shores of Coca Cola
Dwelt the Moxies in their wigwams —
Old Sapolio, the chieftain,
Pebeco, the grizzled prophet,
And the warriors, young and eager.

In the lodge of the old chieftain
With Uneeda, more than mother,
And Victrola, old and feeble,
Lived the warmest of the maidens,
Musterole, Sapolio's daughter —
Musterole, the Sunkist Chiclet.

All the young men sought her favor
Left their trophies at her wigwam,