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 "In the lost battle, borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle with groans of the dying!"

So the notes rung;—

"Avoid thee, fiend!—with cruel hand,

Shake not the dying sinner's sand,

Oh! look, my son, upon yon sign

Of the Redeemer's grace divine;

Oh! think no faith and bliss:—

By many a death-bed I have been,

And many a sinner's parting seen,

But never aught like this."

The war, that for a space did fail,

Now trebly thundering swell'd the gale,

And-Stanley! was the cry;—

A light on Marmion's visage spread,

And fired his glazing eye:

With dying hand, above his head

He shook the fragment of his blade,

And shouted "Victory;

Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stanely, on!"

Were the last words of Marmion.

Come, darling, take a little toddy,

It is a cold and rainy day;

A little's good for any body;

Come, take a little, child, I pray.

O father, do not tempt me so,

I fear I'll love it by and by,

And then my love will grow and grow,

Till I shall drink your bottle dry.