asked his chaplain now to bless
From God's own word their going out,
And seemed to hear the victor's shout,
While from the ranks of Roundheads rose
Triumphant hymns, ere came the blows.
Now Rupert madly dashes out,
"_God and the King!_" his battle shout;
Charges the parliamentary ranks
In centre, heedless of the flanks,
Defeats Lord Fairfax and Leven,
Scatters like leaves their untrained men.
Remorselessly he hewed them down,
And chased their leaders far from town.
But Cromwell kept his men restrained
Till Rupert thought the victory gained.
His eye was all ablaze with fire,
And burned his soul with righteous ire;
Then sharp and passionate came the cry,
"_Charge, in the name of the Most High!_"
His features now most clearly show
A strange, enthusiastic glow.
With zeal he wraps himself about,
And fires men's hearts with glance and shout.
"For God and king," is Rupert's cry.
"_For truth and peace we dare to die!_"
Shouts Cromwell, all the lines along,
Which holds as with a mighty thong
Th' immortal hosts of Puritans,
While on them fall the Royal bans.
As Roundheads, Rupert them derides;
Not Roundheads now, but _Ironsides_.
The heavens were black, the storm still raged,
As tho' with earth a war it waged,
But raged a fiercer war just then,
Not forces blind, but men with men;
For two score thousand men were there;
And booming cannon rent the air.

The Cavaliers were scattered wide,
Brought to the dust their haughty pride;
Across the beanfield Rupert fled,
His standard gone, his garments red;
His men by many hundreds turned
To ask for mercy, nor were spurned;
While he left all and to York sped,
Heedless of stores, or Royal dead.
To Cromwell's swords as stubble they,
And _Truth and Peace_ had gained the day.

OIL THE CRICKET

"Mamma, what noises do I hear?
They keep me wide awake."
"The chirping crickets, little dear;
What funny noise they make!"

"Yes, ma, but touch their tongues with oil,
To take the squeak away;
For soon it will their voices spoil,
To squeak thus night and day."

Well done, my little girl of three;
'Twould tune our speaking gear
To utter sweeter melody
For your attentive ear,

If it were oiled a little, too,
For harsh too oft its tones;
Though formed to thrill with pleasure true,
It gives forth shrieks and groans,

Which fall discordant on the ear,
And budding pleasures spoil,
And speaking gear, likewise I fear;
So bring along the oil.