Men of Harlech! In the Hollow, 
Do ye hear like rushing billow
Wave on wave that surging follow 
Battle's distant sound?
Tis the tramp of Saxon foemen, 
Saxon spearmen, Saxon bowmen,
Be they knights or hinds or yeomen, 
They shall bite the ground!
Loose the folds asunder, 
Flag we conquer under!
The placid sky now bright on high, 
Shall launch its bolts in thunder!
Onward! 'tis the country needs us, 
He is bravest, he who leads us
Honor's self now proudly heads us, 
Freedom, God and Right!

Rocky Steeps and passes narrow, 
Flash with spear and flight of arrow
Who would think of death or sorrow? 
Death is glory now!
Hurl the reeling horsemen over, 
Let the earth dead foemen cover
Fate of friend, of wife, of lover, 
Trembles on a blow!
Strands of life are riven! 
Blow for blow is given
In deadly lock, or battle shock, 
And mercy shrieks to heaven!
Men of Harlech! young or hoary, 
Would you win a name in story?
Stike for home, for life, for glory! 
Freedom, God and Right!

Mary had a little bear.
To which she was so kind, 
And everywhere that Mary went,
She had a bear behind

The Highwayman
BY ALFRED NOYES
PART ONE

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.  
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.  
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,  
And the highwayman came riding—
         Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,  
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.  
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
         His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.  
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there  
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.  
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,  
But he loved the landlord’s daughter,
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter.
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,  
Then look for me by moonlight,
         Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;  
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

PART TWO

He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;  
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,  
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,  
A red-coat troop came marching—
         Marching—marching—
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.  
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!  
There was death at every window;
         And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!  
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

Suggested by Bill Crawford

NOD -       Walter de la Mare:
Softly along the road of evening,
In a twilight dim with rose,
Wrinkled with age, and drenched with dew,
Old Nod the shepherd goes.

His drowsy flock streams on before him,
Their fleeces charged with gold,
To where the sun's last beam leans low
On Nod the the shepherds fold.

The hedge is quick and green with brier,
From their sand the conies creep;
And all the birds that fly in heaven
Flock singing home to sleep.

His lambs outnumber a noon's roses,
Yet, when night shadows fall,
His blind old sheep-dog, Slumber-soon,
Misses not one of all.

His are the quiet steps of dreamland,
The waters of no more pain,
His ram's bell rings 'neath an arch of stars,
"Rest, Rest, and rest again".

Contributed by Lloyd Klein

Wingham's City Prospects
We've heard of Bayfields balmy breeze,its lovely hills and dales,
Its crystal waters bearing up large ships with many sails.

Three weeks ago, we were to hear of Seaforth's enterprise and
may the smoke from its great stacks bedeck the sunny skies.

But come with us to Wingham now and hear what people say.
We sure to have a city here in no distant day.

Come see the hall we have built and Hamilton's lofty bank.
The business of our town is run without a growling crank.

By rail we travel, north and south as well as east and west.
With railway good facilities our town is truly blest.

We buy and ship the farmer's grain and pay for it what's right.
When daylight fades and the evening shades we have electric light.

We pack and ship both eggs and milk for all there is a chance.
Those far and near do business here you'll see by the Advance.

And here just let me warn you now and be so amazed.
To see the loads of furniture we draw on our drays.

We make it here by the car lots for merchants east and west.
The reason they do business here, they say we do it best.

It's doors and sash we keep on hand as well as windows and blinds,
Flour and meal we also roll you'll read it in the Times

Its lumber, shingles, lathe and tile we turn out here so quick and
Handsome houses we do build of Wingham's solid brick.

We mould our iron in many shapes to fit all kinds of humps
And dress it up in proper style to the Wingham pumps.

We weave and dress fine woolen goods for Tories and Grits
And leather tan to suit each man and furs for robes and mitts.

We manufacture best of salt for use and meats
And make good and handsome rigs with fold and jump up seats

We manufacture many things as well as good corn brooms.
The reason that things pay us here is we keep no lazy coons.
Published   Wingham November 4th 1891  Author Unknown

Contributed by R.B.M.

I love this song - reminds me of summer camp.

AHello, Muddah! Hello, Fadduh!

Here I am at Camp Granada.

Camp is very entertaining,

And they say we'll have some fun if it stops raining.v

I went hiking with Joe Spivy.

He developed poison ivy.

You remember Lynnard Skynnard?

He got ptomaine poinsoning last night after dinner.

All the counselors hate the waiters.

And the lake has alligators.

And the head coach wants no sissies,

So he reads to us from something called Ulysses.

Now I don't want this to scare ya,

But my bunk mate has malaria.

You remember Jeffrey Hardy?

They're about to organize a searching party.

Take me home.

Oh Muddah, Fadduh,

Take me home.

I hate Granada.

Don't leave me

Out in the forest where, I might

Get eaten by a bear.

Take me home.

I promise I will not make noise,

Or mess the house with other boys.

Oh, please don't make me stay,

I've been here one whole day.

Dearest Fadduh, Darling Muddah,

How's my precious, little bruddah?

Let me come home if you miss me.

I would even let Aunt Bertha hug and kiss me!

Wait a minute!

It's stopped hailing.

Guys are swimming.

Guys are sailing.

Playing baseball.

Gee! That's better.

Muddah, Fadduh, kindly disregard this letter!