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They are rhymes rudely strung with intent less
They say that poison-sprinkled flowers
Here’s a health to every sportsman, be he stableman or lord,
Translated from the Spanish
“Where shall we go for our garlands glad
Laurence Raby’s Chamber. LAURENCE enters, a little the worse for liquor.
The ocean heaves around us still
Our hopes are wild imaginings,
Thou art moulded in marble impassive,
A Preface and a Piracy
“They have saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
“Beneath the greenwood bough.”
“Gillian’s dead, God rest her bier,
The shore-boat lies in the morning light,
Dear Bell, I enclose what you ask in a letter,
Oh! wind that whistles o’er thorns and thistles,
A burning glass of burnished brass,
From a Picture
Aye, snows are rife in December,
Adieu to kindred hearts and home,
To fetch clear water out of the spring
“There’s something in this world amiss
The spring-wind pass’d through the forest, and whispered low in the leaves,
“Turn out, boys!”, “What’s up with our super to-night?
In Collins-street standeth a statue tall,*
In Five Parts
“Aye, squire,” said Stevens, “they back him at evens;
Aylmer’s Garden, near the Lake. LAURENCE RABY and ESTELLE.
“Then hey for boot and horse, lad!
The Lord shall slay or the Lord shall save!
“And if there’s blood upon his hand,
“A stone upon her heart and head,
Translation from Horace
Am I waking? Was I sleeping?
“Nec propter vitam vivendi perdere causas.”
Two years ago I was thinking
The maiden sat by the river side
The Philosophy of a Feast
An open country.
On the fields of Col’raine there’ll be labour in vain
All is over! fleet career,
On the hill they are crowding together,
Through the lattice rushes the south wind, dense
“You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
As related by Sergeant Leigh on the night he got his captaincy at the Restoration.
Hold hard, Ned! Lift me down once more, and lay me in the shade.
White steeds of ocean, that leap with a hollow and wearisome roar
With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid,
The sword slew one in deadly strife;
We severed in autumn early,
Though I have loved you well, I ween,
Lines written by the late A. L. Gordon
A Shooting-box in the West of Ireland. A Bedchamber.
Oh! the sun rose on the lea, and the bird sang merrilie,
Lay me low, my work is done;
Rest, and be thankful! On the verge
Oh, gaily sings the bird! and the wattle-boughs are stirr’d
“The hills like giants at a hunting lay
The troubles of life are many,
“Now, welcome, welcome, masters mine,