Then I cast loose my buff-coat, each holster let fall, Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all, Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear, Called my Roland his pet-name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good, Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood. And all I remember is, friends flocking round As I sat with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground, And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine, As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine, Which (the burgesses voted by common consent) Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent. MARCHING ALONG I KENTISH Sir Byng stood for his King, Bidding the crop-headed Parliament swing And, pressing a troop unable to stoop And see the rogues flourish and honest folk droop, Marched them along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. II God for King Charles! Pym and such carles To the Devil that prompts 'em their treasonous parles. Cavaliers, up! Lips from the cup, Hands from the pasty, nor bite take nor sup Till you 're-- Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. III Hampden to hell, and his obsequies' knell Serve Hazelrig, Fiennes, and young Harry as well! England, good cheer! Rupert is near! Kentish and loyalists, keep we not here, Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song! IV Then, God for King Charles! Pym and his snarls To the Devil that pricks on such pestilent carles! Hold by the right, you double your might; So, onward to Nottingham, fresh for the fight, Marching along, fifty-score strong, Great-hearted gentlemen, singing this song. _LADY DUFFERIN_ THE IRISH EMIGRANT I'M sitting on the stile, Mary, Where we sat side by side, On a bright May morning long ago, When first you were my bride. The corn was springing fresh and green, And the lark sang loud and high, And the red was on your lip, Mary, And the love light in your eye. The place is little changed, Mary, The day's as bright as then; The lark's loud song is in my ear, And the corn is green again, But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your warm breath on my cheek, And I still keep listening for the words You never more may speak. 'Tis but a step down yonder lane, The village church stands near, The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here. But the grave-yard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest, Where I've laid you, darling, down to sleep, With your baby on your breast. I'm very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends; But, oh, they love the better The few our Father sends. And you were all I had, Mary, My blessing and my pride; There's nothing left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.