POETRY.
THE TALBOT COMETIL
["This man was to the French people, a very scouts and a daily terror, in so much that as his person was fearf a, and terrible to his adversaries present so his name and fame was spiteful! and dreadfull to the common people absent, in so much that women in Promisee to faire their yong childre, would crye, the Talbot commeth, the Talbot commeth."—Hall's Chronicle.
"Being victorious for twenty-four years together, success° failed him at last, charging the Enemy neer Castilion on unequal tersnes, where he, with his Bon the Lord Lisle, were slain with a shot, July, 1453. Henceforward we may say 'Good-night to the English in France,' whose victories were buried with the body of this Earl, and his body entered at White-Church in this County" (Shropshire).—" The History of the Worthies of England," Thomas Fuller.] WILD South-Western, piping shrill, Sad and dreadful trumpeter, Waters, rolling bill on bill,
Higher yet as sinks Honlleur, .
Slash the canvas, snap the gear, Let the steep decks swim with foam ; Naught have we to hope or fear,— This is Talbot's coming home. Master Mayor of Hampton Town, Toll your bells in every tower; Let the crimson cross go down;
Now is England's passing hour; Let the golden leopards fall,—
Fallen low is England's Crown ; Bid them strike the topsails tall, Master Mayor of Hampton Town.
Frenchmen, quit your warlike bands, Plough and sow the Picard plain, Plant the Norman apple-lands, Plant the vineyards of Touraine ; Loiter now in ladies' bowers,
Safely rest and blithely loam; Now ye need nor gates nor towers,-
This is Talbot's coming home.
Bowmen, back from lost Guienne, Softly treading, two by two, Shropshire bowmen, Whitchurch men, Bear him, as he bade you do, On through every weeping shire, Home to Whitchurch, home, and then Lay him in St. Alkmund's choir, Bowmen, back from lost Guienne.
Shrewsbury, Wexford, Waterford, Falconbridge and Furnivall, Lord of Worksop, Wingfield's Lord, And of France a marischal, Goodrich, Alton, and Blackmere, In his well-loved Shropshire loam, Shropshire bowmen, lay him here,-.-- This is Talbot's coming home.
FRANK TAYLOR.
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