No More Learning

For Lucca Diavolo mistook
Angelo's wife for Rose,

And hang me! soon the angel slid
The devil in the sea,
And would of lass likewise be rid--
And so we fought it free!

At Palmas eight or so gave slip,
Pescara to pursue,
And more, perchance, had left the ship,
But Algiers loomed in view;
And here we cruised to intercept
Some lucky-laden rogues,
Whose gold-galleons but slowly crept,
So that we trounced the dogs!

And after making war out there,
We made love at "the Gib. "
We ten--no more! we took it fair,
And kissed the gov'nor's "rib,"
And made the King of Spain our take,
Believe or not, who cares?
I tell ye that he begged till black
I' the face to have his shares.

We're rovers of the restless main,
But we've some conscience, mark!
And we know what it is to reign,
And finally did heark--
Aye, masters of the narrow Neck,
We hearkened to our heart,
And gave him freedom on our deck,
His town, and gold--in part.

My lucky mates for that were made
Grandees of Old Castile,
And maids of honor went to wed,
Somewhere in sweet Seville;

Not they for me were fair enough,
And so his Majesty
Declared his daughter--'tis no scoff!
My beauteous bride should be.

"A royal daughter! " think of that!
But I would never one.
I have a lass (I said it pat)
Who's not been bred like nun--
But, merry maid with eagle eye,
It's proud she smiles and bright,
And sings upon the cliff, to spy
My ship a-heave in sight!
My Faenzetta has my heart!
In Fiesone she
The fairest! Nothing shall us part,
Saving, in sooth, the Sea!
And that not long! its rolling wave
And such breeze holding now
Will send me along to her I love--
And so I made my bow.

We told thirty when we started
From port so taut and fine,
But thus our crew were parted,
And now we number nine.





THE SWISS MERCENARIES.

_("Lorsque le regiment des hallebardiers. ")_

[Bk. XXXI. ]


When the regiment of Halberdiers
Is proudly marching by,
The eagle of the mountain screams
From out his stormy sky;
Who speaketh to the precipice,
And to the chasm sheer;
Who hovers o'er the thrones of kings,
And bids the caitiffs fear.
King of the peak and glacier,
King of the cold, white scalps--
He lifts his head, at that close tread,
The eagle of the Alps.

O shame! those men that march below--
O ignominy dire!
Are the sons of my free mountains
Sold for imperial hire.
Ah!