the bugles, etc. Push every outpost nearer, Press hard the hostile towers! Another Balaklava, And the Malakoff is ours! Then sound again the bugles, Call the muster-roll anew; If months have well-nigh won the field, What may not four years do?
The Panorama. “A! fredome is a nobill thing! Fredome mayse man to haif liking. Fredome all solace to mall giffis; He levys at ese that frely levys! A nobil hart may half nane ese Na ellys nocht that may him plese Gyff Fredome failythe.”
Archdeacon Barbour. through the long hall the shuttered windows shed A dubious light on every upturned head; On locks like those of Absalom the fair, On the bald apex ringed with scanty hair, On blank indifference and on curious stare; On the pale Showman reading from his stage The hieroglyphics of that facial page; Half sad, half scornful, listening to the bruit Of restless cane-tap and impatient foot, And the shrill call, across the general din, ‘Roll up your curtain!
Let the show begin!’ At lengt