Phrase Exercise.
1. Heroic serf.—2. Famished howlings.—3. Bleak plain.—4. A relay of horses.—5. Ordered the horses to be put to.—6. Repeated warnings.—7. The moon began to shed her light.—8. Pack of wolves.—9. Had got scent of them.—10. To calm the anxious fears.—11. Baying at the sleigh.—12. Instantly devoured.—13. Fully resolved.—14. To delay their progress.
XXX.—THERE’S A GOOD TIME COMING.
Charles Mackay.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought’s a weapon stronger;
We’ll win our battle by its aid;—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The pen shall supersede the sword,
And Right, not Might, shall be the lord
In the good time coming.
Worth, not Birth, shall rule mankind,
And be acknowledged stronger;
The proper impulse has been given;—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:—
War in all men’s eyes shall be
A monster of iniquity
In the good time coming;
Nations shall not quarrel then,
To prove which is the stronger;
Nor slaughter men for glory’s sake;—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed
Shall not make their martyrs bleed
In the good time coming.
Religion shall be shorn of pride,
And flourish all the stronger;
And Charity shall trim her lamp;—
Wait a little longer.
There’s a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,
The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
’Twill be strong enough one day;—
Wait a little longer.
XXXI.—JOHN BROWN; OR, A PLAIN MAN’S PHILOSOPHY.
Charles Mackay.
I’ve a guinea I can spend,
I’ve a wife and a friend,
And a troop of little children at my knee, John Brown;
I’ve a cottage of my own,
With the ivy overgrown,
And a garden with a view of the sea, John Brown;
I can sit at my door,
By my shady sycamore,
Large of heart, though of very small estate, John Brown;
So of water drain a glass,
In my arbor as you pass,
And I’ll tell you what I love, and what I hate, John Brown.
I love the song of birds,
And the children’s early words,
And a loving woman’s voice, low and sweet, John Brown;
And I hate a false pretence,
And the want of common sense,
And arrogance, and fawning, and deceit, John Brown.
I love the meadow flowers,
And the briar in the bowers,
And I love an open face without guile, John Brown;
And I hate a selfish knave,
And a proud, contented slave,
And a lout who’d rather borrow than he’d toil, John Brown.
I love a simple song,
That awakes emotions strong,
And the word of hope which raises him who faints, John Brown;
And I hate the constant whine
Of the foolish who repine,
And turn their good to evil by complaints, John Brown;
But ever when I hate,—
If I seek my garden gate,
And survey the world around me and above, John Brown,—
The hatred flies my mind,
And I sigh for human kind,
And excuse the faults of those I cannot love, John Brown.
So if you like my ways,
And the comfort of my days,
I can tell you how I live so unvexed, John Brown;
I never scorn my health,
Nor sell my soul for wealth,
Nor destroy one day the pleasure of the next, John Brown;
I’ve parted with my pride,
And I take the sunny side,
For I’ve found it worse than folly to be sad, John Brown;
I keep a conscience clear,
I’ve a hundred pounds a year,
And I manage to exist and to be glad, John Brown.