Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1890-07-20

good will. Willie-waught is nothing
misconception-a printers blnnder. How
ever, phrases do not count for much. Scotch
| phrases do not make Scotch soug. 1t is not
the provincial dialect-it is the breathing
| spirit that is the life"-and Herewith he re-
peated in q proud manner, as if to crush
this poor anxious poet by the comparison:
see her in the dewy flower,
Sac lovely sweet and fair;
hear her voice in ilka bird
Wi music charm the air;
| There's not bonnie flower that springs
| BY fountain, shaw or green,
| Nor yet bonnie bird that sings
But minds me o. my Jean.
'Beg pardon, sir-Miss Bethune ?'' said
Hobson, inquiringly; for he evidently
thought these lines were of the old gentle
| mans own composition. And then, as he
received no answer, for Mr.. Bethune had
turned to his pipe, he resumed, "Ah, see,
sir, have not been successful. Too am
bitious-too ambitious. 1t was you your
self, sir, as advised me to write about what
knew; and-and in fact, sir, what see is
that there is nothing like patriotism. Lor,
sir, you should see them young fellers at the
Oxbridge-they're as brave as lions
especially when they've 'ad glass. Talk
about the French The French amt in it
when we've got our spirit up. We can
stand lot, sir, yes we can; but don't let
them push us too far. Not too far. 1t will
be bad day for them when they do. An
Englishman amt given to beasting; but he's
a terror when his back s up-and Scotch
man too, sir, 1 beg your pardon-I did not
mean anything-I intended to include the
Scotehman too, 1 assure you, sir. There's
little thing here, sir,' he continued
modestly, ''that should like to read to
you, if may make so bold. I thought of
70 NJ ,k
would take-for there's some fight in the
Englishman yet-and in the Scotchman too,
sir" he instantly added.
"A patriotic poem?-Well?''
Thus encouraged the pleased poet
moistened his lips with the whisky and
water he had brought for himself and began
Where's the man would turn and hyf
Where's the man afraid to die?
It isn't you, 1t isn't /.
No, my lads, no, moi
Then his voice had more valiant ring in it
still:
Who will lead us to the fray?
Who Will sweep the foe away?
Who will win the glorious day?
OF Englands chlvalry?
1t is true, he said, "Who will sweep the foe
awye?" but these little peculiaries were lost
in the fervour of his enthusiasm.
ham-Buller-Wood-
He paused alter each name as if listening
for the thunderous cheering OF the imaginary
audience.
And many another, most as good
Ihey're the men to shed their blood
For their countryI
Then there was touch of pathos:
Fare thee well, love- and adieuI
But that was Immediately dismissed:
Fiercer thoughts have than you;
We will drive the bastard crew
Into slaveryI
An then he stretched forth his right arm
and declaimed in loud and portentous tones:
See the bloody tented field;
Look the fOe-they yield!-they yieldi
Hurrahi hurrah! Our glory's sealedI
Three cheers for victoryl
Suddenly his face blanched. For at this
moment the door opened; tall woman ap-
peared, with astonishment and Indignation
only too legible in her angular features.
"HobsonP' she exclaimed; and at this
awful sound the bold warrior seemed to COL
lapse into limp rag. II am surprised-I
am indeed surprised Really, sir, how can
you encourage him in such impudence?
Seated at your own table and drinking, too.
declare" she went on, as she lifted up the
deserted tumbler-for her warliks husband