For ven towards the wreck he look’d His child he did discover. Von mutton fist in her hair was hook’d Tother vos round her lover. “Come back, come back!” he cried, “to me,” “Come back, vot are you arter, And I’ll forgive you, Billy Downey, My daughter! oh, my daughter.” But a wave came vot upset the boat In the vater they vos drivelling. Joe viped his eye vith the tail of his coat, And he began a snivelling! ANONYMOUS. ―――― THE NEW LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER. A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry; And I’ll give thee a silver pound To row us o’er the ferry.” The boatman did not even smile, But looked across the water; He kenned the Chief of Ulva’s Isle, And eke Lord Ullin’s daughter. “Oh, haste thee!――haste!” the lady cried, “This youth and I, eloping, Would cross at once to t’other side, So aid us in our sloping!” The boatman budged no inch, and then The clue Lord U. discovers; And down the glen ride armed men, And catch the brace of lovers. “Curst boatman;” shouted Ulva’s chief, “If I were free I’d show ye”―― “_We’d rather dee on Loch Maree Than on the Sawbath row ye!_” _Funny Folks_, July 13, 1878. ――――:o:―――― HOHENLINDEN. On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. But Linden saw another sight, When the drum beat, at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery. By torch and trumpet fast array’d, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neigh’d, To join the dreadful revelry. Then shock the hills with thunder riv’n Then rush’d the steeds to battle driv’n, And louder than the bolts of Heaven, Far flash’d the red artillery. But redder yet that light shall glow, On Linden’s hills of stained snow, And bloodier yet the torrent flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly. ’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, Shout in their sulph’rous canopy. The combat deepens, on ye brave, Who rush to glory, or the grave! Wave, Munich, all thy banners wave! And charge with all thy chivalry! Few, few, shall part where many meet! The snow shall be their winding sheet, And every turf beneath their feet, Shall be a soldier’s sepulchre! THOMAS CAMPBELL.