So we were left galloping, Joris and I, Past Looz and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky; The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh, 'Neath our feet broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-spire sprang white, And 'Gallop,' gasped Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!' 'How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan Rolled neck and crop over; lay dead as a stone; And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate, With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim, And with circles of red for his eye-socket's rim. 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. THE IRISH EMIGRANT LADY DUFFERIN 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.