A good sword and a trusty hand,
    A merry heart and true,
  King James’s men shall understand
    What Cornish lads can do. 
  And have they fixed the where and when,
    And shall Trelawney die? 
  Then twenty thousand Cornish men
    Will know the reason why.
  What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? 
    And shall Trelawney die? 
  Then twenty thousand under ground
    Will know the reason why.

  Out spake the captain brave and bold,
    A merry wight was he: 
  “Though London’s Tower were Michael’s hold,
    We’ll set Trelawney free. 
  We’ll cross the Tarnar hand to hand,
    The Exe shall be no stay;
  We’ll side by side from strand to strand,
    And who shall bid us nay?
  What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? 
    And shall Trelawney die? 
  Then twenty thousand Cornish men
    Will know the reason why.

  “And when we come to London wall
    We’ll shout with it in view,
  ’Come forth, come forth, ye cowards all! 
    We’re better men than you! 
  Trelawney, he’s in keep and hold,
    Trelawney, he may die;
  But here’s twenty thousand Cornish bold
    Will know the reason why!’
  What! will they scorn Tre, Pol, and Pen? 
    And shall Trelawney die? 
  Then twenty thousand under ground
    Will know the reason why.”

ROBERT STEPHEN HAWKER.

* * * * *

THE HARP THAT ONCE THROUGH TARA’S HALLS.

  The harp that once through Tara’s halls
    The soul of music shed,
  Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
    As if that soul were fled. 
  So sleeps the pride of former days,
    So glory’s thrill is o’er,
  And hearts that once beat high for praise
    Now feel that pulse no more!

  No more to chiefs and ladies bright
    The harp of Tara swells;
  The chord alone that breaks at night
    Its tale of ruin tells. 
  Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
    The only throb she gives
  Is when some heart indignant breaks,
    To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

* * * * *

AS BY THE SHORE AT BREAK OF DAY.

  As by the shore, at break of day,
  A vanquished chief expiring lay,
  Upon the sands, with broken sword,
    He traced his farewell to the free;
  And there the last unfinished word
    He dying wrote, was “Liberty!”

  At night a sea-bird shrieked the knell
  Of him who thus for freedom fell: 
  The words he wrote, ere evening came,
    Were covered by the sounding sea;—­
  So pass away the cause and name
    Of him who dies for liberty!

THOMAS MOORE.

* * * * *