The Sporting review, ed. by 'Craven'.

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John William Carleton
1839
 

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Сторінка 4 - Is it for thee the lark ascends and sings? Joy tunes his voice, joy elevates his wings. Is it for thee the linnet pours his throat ? Loves of his own and raptures swell the note.
Сторінка 464 - I stuff my skin so full within Of jolly good ale and old. Back and side go bare, go bare; Both foot and hand go cold; But, belly, God send thee good ale enough, Whether it be new or old.
Сторінка 184 - Mirth is like a flash of lightning, that breaks through a gloom of clouds, and glitters for a moment; cheerfulness keeps up a kind of day-light in the mind, and fills it with a steady and perpetual serenity.
Сторінка 464 - I cannot eat but little meat, My stomach is not good ; But sure I think, that I can drink With him that wears a hood...
Сторінка 185 - Once more upon the waters ! yet once more ! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.
Сторінка 261 - Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment ? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence.
Сторінка 448 - Away, away, my steed and I, Upon the pinions of the wind, All human dwellings left behind : We sped, like meteors through the sky...
Сторінка 368 - I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That cost thy life, my gallant gray!
Сторінка 147 - Lovat, who are lords of the manor, used to show their guests, was a voluntarily cooked Salmon at the falls of Kilmorac. For this purpose a kettle was placed upon the flat rock on the south side of the fall, close by the edge of the water, and kept full and boiling. There is a considerable extent of the rock where tents were erected, and the whole was under a canopy of overshadowing trees. There the company are said to have waited until a Salmon fell into the kettle and was boiled in their presence.
Сторінка 389 - In seventeen hundred and forty and four, The fifth of December, I think, 'twas no more, At five in the morning by most of the clocks, We rode from Kilruddery in search of a fox.

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