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Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known ;
And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own ;
But my hearers cry out, What a deuce dost thou ail ?
Cut off thy reflections, and give us thy tale.

Derry down, &c.

'Twas there, then, in civil respect to harsh laws,
And for want of false witness to back a bad cause,
A Norman, though late, was obliged to appear ;
And who to assist, but a grave Cordelier ?

Derry down, &c.

The 'squire, whose good grace was to open the scene,
Seem'd not in great haste that the show should begin ;
Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart ;
And often took leave, but was loath to depart.

Derry down, &c.

What frightens you thus, my good son? says the priest,
You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confessil.
O father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon ;
For 'twas not that I murder d, but that I was taken.

Derry down, &c.

Pough, prithee ne'er trouble thy head with such fancies;
Rely on the aid you shall have from St. Francis ;
If the money you promised be brought to the chest,
You have only to die; let the Church do the rest.

Derry down, &c.

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471 what win sav. if irer see you afrail !
It retects ucn me, as I knew pot my trade:
Cauze, fries i, for to-day is your period of sorrow :
And thin 5 will go better, believe me, to-morrow.

Derty down. &c.

To-morrow! our hero replied in a fright;
He that's hang d before noon, ought to think of to-night.
Tell your beads, quoth the priest, and be fairly truss'd up,
For you surely to-night shall in paradise sup.

Derry down, &c.

Alas! quoth the squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat,
Parbleu! I shall have little stomach to eat ;
I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace,
Would you be so kind as to go in my place.

Derry down, &c.

That I would, quoth the father, and thank you to boot ;
But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit ;
The feast I proposed to you, I cannot taste,
For this night by our order is mark'd for a fast.

Derry down, &c.

Then, turning about to the hangman, he said,
Despatch me, I prythee, this troublesome blade;
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie,
And we live by the gold for which other men die.

Derry down, &c.



(JOSEPH ADDISON was born at Milston, in 1672. He was educated at the Charterhouse School, and afterwards at Queen's College and Magdalen College, Oxford, where he distinguished himself for Latin poetry. In 1699 he obtained a pension of 300l. to enable him to travel; and when he returned he published a pleasing account of his wanderings. Some time afterwards he was made Commissioner of Appeals, and then Under-Secretary of State. When the Marquis of Wharton was made Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, he accompanied him to that country; and, while there, was made Keeper of the Irish Records. He married the Countess Dowager of Warwick, to whose son he had been tutor ; but the union was unfortunate. Both his and Dryden's fate, in marrying noble wives, are warnings to ambitious literary men. Addison became Secretary of State in 1717; but, unable to defend the measures of Government, he resigned the office, on a pension of 1,500l. a year. He died in 1719.

Dr. Johnson asserts that any one desirous of acquiring an English style of the highest excellence “must give his days and nights to the volumes of Addison.” He contributed a great number of admirable papers to the Spectator and other periodicals, which have become a portion of English classical literature. Besides his literary excellence, the tendency of his writings is to advance the cause of religion and virtue. One of his last efforts was a desence of the Christian religion ; and the portion which has been published shows how much reason there is to regret that he did not live to complete it.]

The spacious firmament on high,
With all the blue ethereal sky,
And spangled heavens, a shining frame,
Their great Original proclaim :
Th' unwearied sun from day to day
Does his Creator's power display,
And publishes to every land
The work of an Almighty hand.

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But O, my muse, what numbers wilt thou find To sing the furious troops in battle join'd ! Methinks I hear the drum's tumultuous sound,


The victor's shouts and dying groans confound; The dreadful bursts of cannon rend the skies,

And all the thunder of the battle rise.

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