When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbows drew,
And on the French they flew,

Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent; Scalps to the teeth were rent; Down the French peasants went;Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding,

As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arm with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent
Bruised his helmet.

Glo'ster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood,

With his brave brother-
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight

Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade;

Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made,

Still as they ran up.

Suffolk his axe did ply;
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay
To England to carry;
Oh, when shall Englishmen
With such acts fill a pen,
Or England breed again

Such a King Harry?

QUEEN MAB'S EXCURSION

From Nymphidia, the Court of Faery'

ER chariot ready straight is made;

HER

Each thing therein is fitting laid, That she by nothing might be stay'd, For naught must her be letting: Four nimble gnats the horses were, The harnesses of gossamer,

Fly Cranion, her charioteer,

Upon the coach-box getting.

Her chariot of a snail's fine shell,
Which for the colors did excel,-
The fair Queen Mab becoming well,
So lively was the limning;
The seat the soft wool of the bee,
The cover (gallantly to see)
The wing of a py'd butterflee,—

I trow, 'twas simple trimming.

The wheels composed of crickets' bones,
And daintily made for the nonce;
For fear of rattling on the stones,

With thistle-down they shod it:
For all her maidens much did fear,

If Oberon had chanced to hear

That Mab his queen should have been there, He would not have abode it.

She mounts her chariot with a trice,

Nor would she stay for no advice,

Until her maids, that were so nice,

To wait on her were fitted,

But ran away herself alone;

Which when they heard, there was not one

But hasted after to be gone,

As she had been diswitted.

Hop, and Mop, and Drap so clear,
Pip, and Trip, and Skip, that were

To Mab their sovereign dear,

Her special maids of honor;

Fib, and Tib, and Pinck, and Pin,

Tick, and Quick, and Jill, and Jin,
Tit, and Nit, and Wap, and Win,
The train that wait upon her.

Upon a grasshopper they got,
And what with amble and with trot,
For hedge nor ditch they sparèd not,
But after her they hie them.

A cobweb over them they throw,
To shield the wind if it should blow;
Themselves they wisely could bestow,
Lest any should espy them.

4885

GUSTAVE DROZ

(1832-1895)

USTAVE DROZ enjoyed for a time the distinction of being the most popular writer of light literature in France, and his fame extended throughout Europe and to America, several of his books having been translated into English. Essentially a Parisian of the day, gay, droll, adroit, he not only caught and reflected the humor of his countrymen, but with a new, fresh touch, reached below the surface of their volatile emotions. Occasionally striking the note of deeper feeling, he avoided as a rule the more serious sides of life, as well as the sensational tendencies of most of his contemporaries. His friends claimed for him a distinctive genre, and on that account presented him as a candidate for the Academy; but he failed of election.

GUSTAVE DROZ

The son of a well-known sculptor, he was born in Paris, and followed the traditions of his family in entering the École des Beaux-Arts, where he developed some aptitude with his brush; but a preference for writing beguiled him from the studio, and an acquaintance with Marcellin the illustrator, founder of La Vie Parisienne, led him to follow literature. At first he was timid, dreading the test of publication, but presently he gave himself up unreservedly to his pen. Within a year he was established as a favorite of the people, and his friend's journal was on the highway to success. For this he wrote a series of sketches of every-day life that were subsequently collected and published in book form, under the titles 'Monsieur, Madame, et Bébé,' 'Entre Nous,' and 'La Cahier Bleu de Mlle. Cibot.' Within two years these books had reached their twentieth edition, and of the first, nearly one hundred and fifty editions have been demanded since it was issued. He has written several novels, the best known of which are 'Babolein,' 'Les Étangs ' (The Ponds), and 'Autour d'une Source' (Around a Spring), but they did not fully sustain the reputation gained by his short sketches; a fact which induced him in 1884 to return to his earlier form in Tristesses et Sourires' (Sorrows and Smiles), a volume of light