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Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
Who stood expectant by ;

And then the old man shook his head,

And with a natural sigh,

""Tis some poor fellow's skull," said he, "Who fell in the great victory!

"I find them in the garden,

For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough,

The ploughshare turns them out; For many thousand men," said he, "Were slain in that great victory!

66 'Now, tell us what 'twas all about,"
Young Peterkin he cries;
And little Wilhelmine looks up
With wonder-waiting eyes;
"Now tell us all about the war,
And what they killed each other for."

"It was the English," Kaspar cried,
Who put the French to rout;
But what they killed each other for
I could not well make out.
But everybody said," quoth he,
"That 'twas a famous victory!

"My father lived at Blenheim then

Yon little stream hard by ;

They burned his dwelling to the ground,

And he was forced to fly :

So, with his wife and child he fled,

Nor had he where to rest his head.

"With fire and sword the country round

Was wasted far and wide;

And many a childing mother then,

And new-born baby died.

But things like that, you know, must be

At every famous victory.

"They say it was a shocking sight

After the field was won ;

For many thousand bodies here

Lay rotting in the sun.

But things like that, you know, must be
After a famous victory.

"Great praise Duke Marlborough won,
And our good Prince Eugene.'

"Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!

Said little Wilhelmine.

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"Nay, nay, my little girl," quoth he,
"It was a famous victory!

"And everybody praised the Duke
Who this great fight did win."
"But what good came of it at last?"
Quoth little Peterkin.

Why, that I cannot tell," said he;
"But 'twas a famous victory!"

THE BRITISH WATER-DRINKERS.
OH! water for me! bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee !
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;

It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness, like infant purity.

Oh! water, bright water for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee !

Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim !
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim !
For my hand is steady, my eye is true,

For I, like the flowers, drink nought but dew.
Oh! water, bright water 's a mine of wealth,
And the ores it yieldeth are vigour and health.
So water, pure water for me, for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee !

Fill again to the brim! again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb!
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the strong it addeth strength.
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light,
So, water! I will drink nought but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When o'er the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers;
Oh! cheerily then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,

As he freshens his wing in the cold grey cloud.

But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew, Drowsily flying and weaving anew

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea

How gently, O sleep! fall thy poppies on me;
For I drink water, pure, cold, and bright,
And my dreams are of heaven the livelong night;
So hurrah! for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art riband and star!
Hurrah! for bright water! hurrah! hurrah!

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BURNS.

He seized his country's lyre, With ardent grasp and strong

And made his soul of fire

Dissolve itself in song.

SOUTHEY.

Where Necromancy flings

O'er Eastern lands her spell, Sustained on Fable's wings, His spirit loves to dwell. COLERIDGE.

Magician, whose dread spell,
Working in pale moonlight,

From Superstition's cell
Invokes each satellite!

WORDSWORTH.

He hung his harp upon

Philosophy's pure shrine; And, placed by Nature's throne, Composed each placid line.

CAMPBELL.

With all that Nature's fire
Can lend to polished Art,

He strikes his graceful lyre
To thrill or warm the heart.

BYRON.

Black clouds his forehead bound,
And at his feet were flowers:
Mirth, Madness, Magic, found
In him their keenest powers.

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