That they carried him captive, refusing to fly. With that to King William himself I was brought, And his mercy for Desmond with tears I be- sought. He considered my story, then smiling, says he, "The young Irish rebel for your sake is free. "Bring the varlet before us. Now, Desmond O'Hea, Myself has decided your sentence to-day. You must marry your sailor with bell, book, and ring, And here is her dowry," cried William the King! ----A. P. Graves. [Illustration: 0308] JOHNNY COX |As in the good ship Annabel We coasted off Corfu, A sudden storm upon us fell, And tore our timbers true And rent our sails in two. Our top-mast tumbled by the board, Our mizeh-mast as well; Through flapping canvas, scourging cord, Above like our death-bell-- We hear the thunder knell. "Now cut away!" our Captain cries, "And like a cork she floats;" But axe in hand, with scowling eyes, Set teeth and cursing throats, The Lascars loose the boats. When Johnny Cox, who lay below, From off his fever-bed, Comes staggering up, a ghastly show As if from out the dead, And drives them back in dread. "What! quit your posts, ye cowards all? Here's ballast then for you!" With that he heaves a cannon-ball Full crash the cutler through, And saves the ship and crew. But he, our hero, ere the rocks We rounded, drooped and died; And we should lower you, Johnny Cox, Lamenting o'er the side-- Into the moaning tide. ----A. P. Graves. A SONG OF THE EXMOOR HUNT |Awake, arise! The south wind sighs, Beneath a cloudy curtain Old Sol is snoozing in the skies, There's scent to-day for certain. And down deep o'er Slowley Steep The harbourer swears he shall drop, boys, On brow, bay, bay and tray, Tray and three on top, boys! Look up, a stream of sporting pink Along the ridge is rushing, Morn's ashen cheek you'd almost think To rosy red was blushing; But few, few, so smart of hue And spick and span from the shop, boys, Shall stick to-day to brow, bay, Tray and three on top, boys! What ho! the tufters on a find Are turning to the nor'ard. Hark back! hark back!'tis but a hind! The stag himself! Hark for'ard! O'er hedge, spine, sedge and rhine, Full cry we course and hop, boys, Behind brow, bay and tray, Tray and three on top, boys! Past Dunster towers and Wootton bowers, Up Cutcombe Crest he's gliding. Here, roadster friends, your fun it ends, We've done with arm-chair riding, And full sail, head to tail, Down Dunkery side we drop, boys, On brow, bay, bay, and tray, Tray and three on top, boys! We've chucked a City swell to the pig In his mixen at Cloutsham Corner; We've hung our artist by his wig, Like Absalom, in Horner, Till hard pressed by all our best