"Oh! think you, good Sir John Franklin,
We'll ever see the land?
'Twas cruel to send us here to starve,
Without a helping hand.
"'Twas cruel, Sir John, to send us here,
So far from help and home,
To starve and freeze on this lonely sea:
I ween, the Lord of the Admiralty
Would rather send than come."
"Oh! whether we starve to death alone,
Or sail to our own country,
We have done what man has never done--
The truth is found, the secret won--
We passed the Northern Sea!"
PHADRIG CROHOORE.
BY JAMES SHERIDAN LE FANU.
Oh, Phadrig Crohoore was a broth of a boy,
And he stood six feet eight;
And his arm was as round as another man's thigh,--
'Tis Phadrig was great.
His hair was as black as the shadows of night,
And it hung over scars got in many a fight.
And his voice, like the thunder, was deep, strong, and loud,
And his eye flashed like lightning from under a cloud,--
And there wasn't a girl from thirty-five under,
Sorra matter how cross, but he could come round her;
But of all whom he smiled on so sweetly, but one
Was the girl of his heart, and he loved her alone.
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