and roughness of superficial worldly life." She told you to direct your "First Steps" in the right way, and the remainder of the journey of life would be bright and cheerful; to be carefree of "Little Things," for in them is discovered the principle of the man and the gentleman; to look with pride on the way of the "Wild Goose" of the "Past," with contempt on the darkness of the "present," and to gauge with courage into the mists of the "Future." She advised you to "Look Within," and thereby learn to know yourselves and life," that your way may be smooth and its end bright. She told you to speak "Gentle Words," which constitute the riches and power you possess at present, the "boons which you have in your power to bestow," and that you should not be niggardly of such gifts. Were her words good? Were her warning wise?
Has she not dashed her "Emerald Spray," around you, bringing back to your memories, the sparkling waters and fair valleys of your own emerald island? Has she not answered the various questions of her correspondents with profound wisdom and erudition, and collected for your gratification the "waifs and strays" that are passing and repassing on the innumerable telegraph lines of ocean and air? Has she not —— but enough; the "Wild Goose" has exerted all her energies and all her abilities to amuse, instruct, and please you, and she trusts that she has not entirely failed in her exertions.
And now—farewell!—in all probability the "Wild Goose" will never speak to you again, but it alleviates the pain of parting to be able at this holy time to assure you all that there are fond prayers being wafted after your ship from the old land, and to wish you, even here, a merry, merry Christmas, with a prayer to him that directs our way, that, ere the blessed days returns again, you may be all free and happy men.
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Come, banish Care and dull despair;
'Tis merry Christmas time;
Then close around, and hear resound
A story told in rhyme.
A Christmas story, of fame and glory,
That ne'er will fade, of "The Brigade:"
For us, to-night, 'twill sound as bright
As merry Christmas Chime.
And when 'tis told, we will unfold
An ocean legend true,
That dreadful spell, that erst befell,
"The Dutchman" and his Crew.
No Christmas tree grows on the sea,
No berries bright, of red or white,
And ill retrieves their loss, the 'leaves
Around the strew.
But ever still, through good or ill,
We welcome Christmas day.
No loved are near, nor cup to cheer,
And brighten up our way;
Yet banish care and dull despair,
For Christmas cheer we'll each draw near,
And let to-night, our hearts grow bright,
In friendship's ray.
Cremona
All dark and sullen was the night, and red the sun went down
Behind the towers and battlements of old Cremona's town
Sullen the blust'ring march winds swept the waters of the Po,
French, ravellin and parallel of France's baffled foe—
Austria's legions and their chief, the gallant Prince Eugene,
Had tried for months, the town to take by storm, but tried in vain;
Upon the walls, the fleur-de-lis still waved in haughty joy
Above its brave defenders and their marshal Villeroy—
Waved over the sons of Sunny France, her braces and her best—
Waved o'er the men of the "Brigade"—the "Wild Geese" of the west—
Full oft the walls high over the fight had rung with Irish Cheers
As fiercely on the foe, dashed Burke's and Dillon's grenadiers;
For ever when in fiercest fight—her banner France unveiled,
Her Irish allies still were found the bravest to uphold
Her honour, and on any a field, in any bloody fray,
Those foster sons of France have turned, the fortunes of the day,
Nor grudged to their adopted land, their dead so thickly strown,
But fiercely dealt her vengeance out, whilst waiting for their own.
—Tonight within Cremona's walls, all silent as the dead,
Nought heard is but the flashing rain, the sentry's measured tread
Is muffled by the gusty winds in eddying blasts that sweep,
All else is hushed, the garrison is weary and asleep:
Divided by the river Po, their force lay thus arrayed—
This southern town held by the French, the north by the Brigade.
