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Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision, or a waking dream ?

Fled is that music :-do I wake or sleep?
(Keats's Poems, in " Smith's Standard Library.")



Home for the holidays, here we go;
Bless me, the train is exceedingly slow!
Pray, Mr. Engineer, get up your steam,
And let us be off, with a puff and a scream !
We have two long hours to travel, you say ;
Come, Mr. Engineer, gallop away!
Two hours more! why, the sun will be down,
Before we reach dear old London town!
And then, what a number of fathers and mothers,
And uncles and aunts, and sisters and brothers,
Will be there to meet us-oh! do make haste,
For I'm sure, Mr. Guard, we have no time to waste !
Thank goodness, we shan't have to study and stammer,
Over Latin and sums, and that nasty French grammar;
Lectures, and classes, and lessons are done,
And now we'll have nothing but frolic and fun.
Home for the holidays, here we go;
But this fast train is really exceedingly slow!
We shall have sport when Christmas comes,
When “snap-dragon” burns our fingers and thumbs ;
We'll hang mistletoe over our dear little cousins,
And pull them beneath it, and kiss them by dozens:
We shall have games at “Blind-man's-buff,"
And noise and laughter and romping enough:
We'll crown the plum pudding with bunches of bay,
And roast all the chestnuts that come in our way :

And when Twelfth-night falls, we'll have such a cake,
That as we stand round it the table shall quake,
We'll draw “King and Queen,” and be happy together,
And dance old “Sir Roger" with hearts like a feather.
Home for the holidays, here we go!
But this fast train is really exceedingly slow.
And we'll go and see Harlequin's wonderful feats,
Changing by magic whatever he meets;
And Columbine, too, with her beautiful tripping;
And Clown, with his tumbling and jumping and

Cramming all things in his pocket so big,
And letting off crackers in Pantaloon's wig.
The horses that danced, too, last year in the ring ;
We remember the tune, it was sweet “ Tink a Ting."
And their tails and their manes, and their sleek coats so

bright, Some cream and some piebald, some black and some

white; And how Mr. Merryman made us all shout, When he fell from his horse, and went rolling about; We'll be sure to go there—'tis such capital fun, And we won't stir an inch till 'tis


bit done!

Mr. Punch, we'll have him too, our famous old friend ;
One might see him for ever, and laugh till the end :
With his little dog Toby, so clever and wise,
And poor Mrs. Judy, with tears in her eyes;
With the constable taking him off to the bar,
And the gentleman talking his “Shalla-balla ; "
With the flourishing stick that knocks all of them down;
For Punch's delight is in breaking a crown.
Home for the holidays, here we go!
But really this train is exceedingly slow;
Yet stay! I declare here is London at last!
The park is right over the tunnel just pass'd.

Huzza! huzza ! I can see my papa!
I can see George's uncle, and Edward's mamma!
And Fred, there's your brother! look ! look! there he

They see us, they see us, they're waving their hands ;
Why don't the train stop, what are they about?
Now, now it is steady,-oh! pray let us out :
A cheer for old London, a kiss for mamma,
We're home for the holidays. Now, huzza !

(By permission of the Author.)


MICHAEL DRAYTON. [Michael Drayton, the poet, was born at Atherstone, in Warwickshire, about the year 1563. He was a very voluminous writer, and appears to have taken Spenser for his model-choosing pastoral subjects, and, like Spenser, personifying natural objects—às hills, rivers, woods, &c. Both Southey and Coleridge thought highly of his writings, but they are now little read. He appears, as was the fashion of poets of his periol, to have depended upon patrons for his support, for we read that at the time of his death, in 1631," he had found final shelter in the family of the Earl of Dorset. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. His works are a collection of Pastorals, 1593 ; “The Barons' Wars," and "England's Heroical Epistles,” 1598; “The Polyolbion," first part, 1612 ; second, 1622. The latter is a work full of topographical and antiquarian details, but clothed in lively and harmonious verse; it is, perhaps, unique as a poem, and its perusal will well repay any one of antiquarian taste, the information it conveys being acknowledged to be very accurate.)

Fair stood the wind for France,
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance,

Longer will tarry;
But putting to the main,
At Kaux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train,

Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnished in warlike sort,
Marcheth towards Agincourt,

In happy hour;
Skirmishing day by day
With those that stopped his way,
Where the French General lay,

With all his power.
Which in his height of pride,
King Henry to deride,
His ransom to provide

To the King sending.
Which he neglects the while,
As from a nation vile,
Yet with an angry smile,

Their fall portending:
And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
“ Though they to one be ten,

Be not amazed.
Yet have we well begun,
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the Sun

By fame been raised. And for myself," quoth he, 66 This

my full rest shall be, England ne'er mourn for me,

Nor more esteem me!
Victor I will remain,
Or on this earth lie slain,
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.
Poictiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell;

No less our skill is,

Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,
By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French Lilies.”
The Duke of York so dread,
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped,

Amongst his hench-men.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there,
O Lord, how hot they were

On the false Frenchmen!

They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone; Drum now to drum did groan,

To hear was wonder;
That with the cries they make
The very earth did shake,
Trumpet to trumpet spake

Thunder to thunder.
Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim

To our hid forces;
When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly,
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long,
That like to serpents stung,

Piercing the weather ;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts,

Stuck close together.

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