Part 3 (1/2)

Dear Harden.

Dear Harden, the home o' mi boyhood so dear, Thy wanderin son sall thee ivver revere; Tho' years hev rolled ower sin thy village I left, An' o' frends an' relations I now am bereft.

Yet thy hills they are pleasant, tho' rocky an' bare; Thy dawters are handsom, thy sons they are rare; When I wauk thro' thy dells, by the clear running streams, I think o' mi boyhood an' innocent dreams.

No care o' this life then trubled me breast, I wor like a young bird new fligged fra its nest; Wi me dear little mates did I frolic an' play, Wal life's sweetest moments wor flying away.

As the dew kissed the daisies ther portals to close, At neet e mi bed I did sweetly repose; An' rose in the morning at nature's command, Till fra boyhood to manhood mi frame did expand.

The faces that wunce were familiar to me, Those that did laugh at my innocent glee; I fancy I see them, tho' now far away, Or praps e Bingley church-yard they may lay.

Fer sin I've embarked on life's stormy seas, Mi mind's like the billows that's nivver at ease; Yet I still hev a hope mi last moments to crown E thee, dearest village, to lay misell down.”

Castlear's Address to Spain.

O weeping Spain, thy banners rear, Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining: Awake, nor shrink in craven fear,- See the Carlist blades are s.h.i.+ning.

They come with murdering dirk in hand, Death, ruin, rapine in their train: To arms! rouse up and clear the land, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Your sires were great in ancient days, No loftier power on earth allowing; Shall ye their mighty deeds araise, And to these fiends your heads be bowing?

They strove for fame and liberty On fields where blood was shed like rain: Hark! they're shouting from the sky, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Castille and Arragon, arise!

A treacherous Popish war is brewing: Tear of the bandage from your eyes, Are ye asleep while this is doing?

They come! Their prelates lead them on: They carry with them thraldom's chain.

Up! and crush their cursed Don; Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Go forth, through every well-known spot; O'er field and forest, rock and river:

Then draw your swords and sheathe them not, Until you've crushed your foe for ever.

Do you fear the priestly hosts Who march them on with proud disdain; _Back_! send home their shrieking ghosts, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Thou surely art not sunk so low That strangers can alone restore thee: No; Europe waits the final blow, When superst.i.tion flies before thee.

For Spanish might through Spanish hands Their freedom only can restrain, Then sweep these Carlists from the land, Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

Christmas Day.

Sweet lady, 'tis no troubadour, That sings so sweetly at your door, To tell you of the joys in store, So grand and gay; But one that sings remember th' poor, 'Tis Christmas Day.