Chapter III (3)

We, taking into our most serious Consideration the just and
necessary Measures of Force which We are obliged to use
against Our rebellious Subjects in Our Colonies and
Provinces in North America and Putting Our Trust in Almighty
God, that He will vouchsafe a special Blessing on Our Arms
both by Sea and Land, have resolved, and do, by and with the
Advice of Our Privy Council, hereby command, That a Publick
Fast and Humiliation be observed throughout that Part of Our
Kingdom of Great Britain called England, Our Dominion of
Wales, and Town of Berwick upon Tweed, upon Friday the 13th
Day of December next; and so both We and Our People may
humble Ourselves before Almighty God, in order to obtain
Pardon of Our Sins; and may, in the most devout and solemn
Manner, send up our Prayers and Supplications to the Devine
Majesty, for averting those heavy Judgments which Our
manifold Sins and Provocations have most justly deserved,
and for imploring his Intervention and Blessing speedily to
deliver Our loyal Subjects within Our Colonies and Provinces
in North America from the Violence, Injustice, and Tyranny,
of those daring Rebels who have assumed to themselves the
Exercise of Arbitrary Power; to open the Eyes of those who
have been deluded by specious Falsehoods into Acts of
Treason and Rebellion; to turn the Hearts of the Authors of
these Calamities, and finally to restore Our People in those
distracted Provinces and Colonies to the happy Condition of
being free Subjects of a free State; under which heretofore
they flourished so long and prospered so much.

And We do strictly charge and command, That the said Publick
Fast be reverently and devoutly observed by all Our loving
Subjects in England, Our Dominion of Wales, and Town of
Berwick upon Tweed, as they tender the Favour of Almighty
God, and would avoid His Wrath and Indignation; and upon
Pain of such Punishment as We may justly inflict upon all
such as contemn and neglect the Performance of so religious
a Duty. And, for the better and more orderly solemnizing the
same, We have given Directions to the Most Reverend the
Archbishops, and the Right Reverend the Bishops of England,
to compose a Form of Prayer, suitable to this Occasion, to
be used in all Churches, Chapels, and Places of Publick
Worship, and to take Care the same be timely dispersed
throughout their respective Dioceses. Given at Our Court at
St. James, the Thirtieth Day of October, One Thousand seven
hundred and seventy-six, in the Seventeenth Year of Our
Reign.

HOW PUNSTERS SMITE THE LYRE.

THE AHKOOND OF SWAT.

By George Thomas Lanigan.

(This famous poem appeared in the New York _Sun_ in January,
1876. Mr. Lanigan wrote it the previous evening, on the
arrival of a brief cablegram announcing the death of the
Ahkoond of Swat, in British India.)

What, what, what,
What's the news from Swat?
Sad news,
Bad news,
Comes by the cable led
Through the Indian Ocean's bed,
Through the Persian Gulf, the Red
Sea, and the Med-
iterranean--he's dead;
The Ahkoond is dead!

For the Ahkoond I mourn;
Who wouldn't?
He strove to disregard the message stern,
But he Ahkoodn't.
Dead, dead, dead;
(Sorrow Swats!)

Swats wha hae wi' Ahkoond bled,
Swats whom he hath often led
Onward to a gory bed,
Or to victory,
As the case might be,
Sorrow Swats!
Tears shed,
Shed tears like water,
Your great Ahkoond is dead!
That Swats the matter!

Mourn, city of Swat!
Your great Ahkoond is not,
But lain 'mid worms to rot.
His mortal part alone; his soul was caught
(Because he was a good Ahkoond)
Up to the bosom of Mahound.
Though earthly walls his fame surround
(Forever hallowed be the ground!)
And skeptics mock the lowly mound
And say "He's now of no Ahkoond!"
His soul is in the skies--
The azure skies that bend above his loved
Metropolis of Swat.
He sees with larger, other eyes,
Athwart all earthly mysteries
He knows what's Swat.
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With a noise of mourning and of lamentation!
Let Swat bury the great Ahkoond
With the noise of the mourning of the Swattish nation!
Fallen is at length
Its tower of strength,
Its sun is dimmed ere it had nooned;
Dead lies the great Ahkoond;
The great Ahkoond of Swat
Is not!

THE DYING SHOEMAKER.

"Dear wife, I'm waxing near my end,"
The dying cobbler said;
"Soon to an upper world my soul
Its lonely way must tread.

"I fear indeed I'm pegging out;
But then what boots it, love?
Here we've been a well-fitted pair,
And so we'll be above.

"My ills I know no drugs may heel,
So it's well to prepare;
We can't run counter to our fate--
Just put a peg in there.

"The future need not give you care,
I've left my awl to you;
For deep within my inner sole
I know that you've been true.

"I've always given you your rights,
But now you must be left;
However, do not grieve too much
When of me you're bereft.

"A last farewell I now will take."
He smiled and raised his head.
"B-last the cruel malady
That lays you low," she said.

"I'll slipper away in peace," he sighed;
"The strife will soon be past."
His head fell back, he sweetly smiled,
And then he breathed his last.