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SONG OF MARION'S MEN.

OUR band is few, but true and tried-
Our leader frank and bold;
The foeman trembles in his camp,
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good green wood,
Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us,
As seamen know the sea;
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of ready grass,

Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.

Woe to the heedless soldiery
Who little think us near,
On them shall light at midnight,
A strange and sudden fear.
When waking to their tents on fire,
They grasp their arms in vain
And they who stand to face us
Are bent to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil;
We walk the battle over,

And share the battle's spol.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind,
That in the pine top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.

Well known the fair and friendly

moon,

The band that Marion leads,
The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds
'Tis life our fiery barbs to guide
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night wind
That lifts their tossing manes.
A moment in the ravaged camp—
A moment—and away,
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.

Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs-
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers:
The loveliest ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming-
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear those trusty arms,
And lay them down no more,
Till we have driven the oppressor,
For ever from our shore.

THE LAST SHILLING

As pensive one night in my garret I sate, My last shilling produced on the table;

That adventure, cried I might a history relate,

If to think and to speak it were able. Whether fancy or magić 'twas played me the freak,

The face seemed with life to be filling;

And cried, instantly speaking, or seeming to speak,

Pay attention to me-thy last shilling

I was once the last coin of the law & sad limb,

Who in cheating was ne'er known to falter;

Til at length brought to justice, the law cheated him

And he paid me to buy him a halter; A Jack tar, all his rhino but me at an end,

With a pleasure so hearty and willing,

Though hungry himself, to the poor distressed friend

Wished it hundreds-and gave his last shilling.

"Twas the wife of his messmate, whose glist'ning eye,

With pleasure ran o'er as she view'd

me;

She changed me for bread, as her child she heard cry,

And at parting with tears she bedew

ed me.

But I've other scenes known, riot leading the way,

Pale want their poor families chil

ling;

Where rakes in their revels, the piper

to pay,

Have spurned me-their best friend and last shilling.

Thou thyself hast been thoughtlessprofligates bail

But to morrow all care shalt thou bury,

When my little history thou offerest for sale,

In the interim spend me and be

merry.

Never, never cried I, thou'rt my Mentor-my muse,

And, grateful, thy dictates fulfilling, J'll hoard thee in my heart-thus mean counsel refuse,

Till the lecture comes from the last shilling.

WHEN THE WIND BLOWS.

When the wind blows-then the mill goes,

Our hearts are light and merry; When the wind drops-then the mili stops,

We drink, and sing hey down derry