7
The minstrel fell!—but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under,
The harp he lov’d ne’er spoke again.
For he tore its cords asunder:
And said, "No chains shall sully thee,
"Thou soul of love and bravery!
"Thy songs we’re made for the pure and free
"They shall never sound in slavery."
BEADLE OF THE PARISH.
I’m a very knowing prig,
With my laced coat and wig,
Though they say I am surly and bearish
Sure I look a might man,
When I flourish my rattan,
To fright the little boys,
Who in church time make a noise,
Because I’m beadle of the Parish.
Here and there,—every where?
Hollo now,— What’s the row?
Fine to do,—Who are you?
Why, zounds, I’m the Beadle of the Parish.
Whenever I come nigh,
How I make the beggars fly,
My looks are so angry and scarish,
Like other city folks,
