LITMIR.BIZ

      O weeping Spain, thy banners rear,

         Awake, nor stay in sloth reclining:

      Awake, nor shrink in craven fear, —

         See the Carlist blades are shining.

      They come with murdering dirk in hand,

         Death, ruin, rapine in their train:

      To arms! rouse up and clear the land,

         Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

      Your sires were great in ancient days,

         No loftier power on earth allowing;

      Shall ye their mighty deeds araise,

         And to these fiends your heads be bowing?

      They strove for fame and liberty

         On fields where blood was shed like rain:

      Hark! they’re shouting from the sky,

         Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

      Castille and Arragon, arise!

         A treacherous Popish war is brewing:

      Tear of the bandage from your eyes,

         Are ye asleep while this is doing?

      They come!  Their prelates lead them on:

         They carry with them thraldom’s chain.

      Up! and crush their cursed Don;

         Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

      Go forth, through every well-known spot;

         O’er field and forest, rock and river:

      Then draw your swords and sheathe them not,

         Until you’ve crushed your foe for ever.

      Do you fear the priestly hosts

         Who march them on with proud disdain;

      Back! send home their shrieking ghosts,

         Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

      Thou surely art not sunk so low

         That strangers can alone restore thee:

      No; Europe waits the final blow,

         When superstition flies before thee.

      For Spanish might through Spanish hands

         Their freedom only can restrain,

      Then sweep these Carlists from the land,

         Down with kingcraft, weeping Spain.

      Sweet lady, ’tis no troubadour,

         That sings so sweetly at your door,

      To tell you of the joys in store,

               So grand and gay;

      But one that sings remember th’ poor,

               ’Tis Christmas Day.

      Within some gloomy walls to-day

         Just cheer the looks of hoary gray,

      And try to smooth their rugged way

               With cheerful glow;

      And cheer the widow’s heart, I pray,

               Crushed down with woe.

      O make the weary spent-up glad,

         And cheer the orphan lass and lad;

      Make frailty’s heart, so long, long sad,

               Your kindness feel;

      And make old crazy-bones stark mad

               To dance a reel.

      Then peace and plenty be your lot,

      And may your deed ne’er be forgot,

      That helps the widow in her cot,

               From of your store;

      Nor creed nor seed should matter not,

               The poor are poor.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         The lord o’ yonder castle gay;

      Hev rooms in state ta imitate

         The princely splendour of the day,

      Fer what are all mi carved doors,

      Mi shandeliers or carpet floors,

         No art cud save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Decked e’ costly costumes grand,

      Like the Persian king o’ kings,

         With diamond rings to deck mi hand:

      Fer what wor all mi grand attire,

      That fooils both envy and admire,

         No gems cud save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Thy worthy host, O millionaire,

      Hev cent. for cent. for money lent;

         My wealth increasing ivvery year.

      For what wor all mi wealth to me,

      Compared ta loisin immortalite,

         Wealth cud not save me from the grave.

      What profits me tho’ I sud be

         Even thee gert Persian Shah,

      Mi subjects stand at mi command,

         Wi fearful aspect and wi awe;

      For what wor a despotic rule,

      Wi all th’ world at my control,

         All cud not save me from the grave.

      Go, string once more old Ebor’s harp,

         And bring it here to me,

      For I must sing another song,

         The theme of which shall be, —

      A worthy old philantropist,

         Whose soul in goodness soars,

      And one whose name will stand as firm

         As the rocks that gird our shores;

      The fine old Bradford gentleman,

      The good Sir Titus Salt.

      Heedless of others; some there are,

         Who all their days employ

      To raise themselves, no matter how,

         And better men destroy:

      How different is the mind of him,

         Whose deeds themselves are told,

      Who values worth more nobler far

         Than all the heaps of gold,

      His feast and revels are not such,

         As those we hear and see,

      No princely splendour does he indulge,

         Nor feats of revelry;

      But in the orphan schools they are,

         Or in the cot with her,

      The

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