The dew is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And the captain's waving feather Proclaims the hour is nigh When some upon their horses Shall through the battle ride, And some with bleeding corses Must on the heather bide. The dust is on the heather, The moon is in the sky, And about the captain's feather The bolts of battle fly. But hark! What sudden wonder Breaks forth upon the gloom? It is the cannon's thunder, --It is the voice of doom. The blood is on the heather, The night is in the sky, And the gallant captain's feather Shall wave no more on high. The grave and holy brother To God is saying mass; But who shall tell his mother, And who shall tell his lass? THE RIDE TO LONDON. By Chakles Dickens. I. When the coach came round with "London" blazoned in letters of gold upon the boot, it gave Tom such a turn, that he was half disposed to run away. But he didn't do it; for he took his seat upon the box instead, and looking down upon the four grays felt as if he were another gray himself, or at all events, a part of the turn-out; and was quite confused by the novelty and splendor of his situation. And really it might have confused a less modest man than Tom to find himself sitting next to that coachman; for of all the swells that ever flourished a whip professionally, he might have been elected Emperor.
