King Death was a rare old fellow, He sat where no sun could shine, And he lifted his hand so yellow, And poured out his coal-black wine Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! There came to him many a maiden Whose eyes had forgot to shine, And widows with grief o'erladen, For a draught of his coal-black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! The scholar left all his learning, The poet his fancied woes, And the beauty her bloom returning, Like life to the fading rose. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! All came to the rare old fellow, Who laughed till his eyes dropped brine, And he gave them his hand so yellow, And pledged them in Death's black wine. Hurrah, for the coal-black wine! SONG FOR TWILIGHT Hide me, O twilight air, Hide me from thought, from care, From all things foul or fair, Until to-morrow! To-night I strive no more; No more my soul shall soar: Come, sleep, and shut the door 'Gainst pain and sorrow! If I must see through dreams, Be mine Elysian gleams, Be mine by morning streams To watch and wander; So may my spirit cast (Serpent-like) off the past, And my free soul at last Have leave to ponder. And shouldst thou 'scape control, Ponder on love, sweet soul; On joy, the end and goal Of all endeavour: But if earth's pains will rise, (As damps will seek the skies,) Then, night, seal thou mine eyes, In sleep for ever. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA CHARLES WOLFE Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corpse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But we left him alone with his glory. I ARISE FROM DREAMS OF THEE