to-morrow must feed us; And as for the future, we care not the least, But leave it to heaven to heed us. And when our throats with a vintage rare We've long enough been supplying, Fresh courage and strength we drink in there, And with the evil one friendship swear, Who down in hell is frying. The groans o'er fathers reft of breath, The sorrowing mothers' cry of death, Deserted brides' sad sobs and tears. Are sweetest music to our ears. Ha! when under the axe each one quivering lies, When they bellow like calves, and fall round us like flies, Naught gives such pleasure to our sight, It fills our ears with wild delight. And when arrives the fatal day The devil straight may fetch us! Our fee we get without delay—       They instantly Jack-Ketch us. One draught upon the road of liquor bright and clear, And hip! hip! hip; hurrah! we're seen no longer here! 

       From The Robbers, act iv. scene 5.     

           MOOR'S SONG. BRUTUS. Ye are welcome, peaceful realms of light! Oh, receive Rome's last-surviving son! From Philippi, from the murderous fight, Come I now, my race of sorrow run.—    Cassius, where art thou?—Rome overthrown! All my brethren's loving band destroyed! Safety find I at death's door alone, And the world to Brutus is a void! CAESAR. Who now, with the ne'er-subdued-one's tread, Hither from yon rocks makes haste to come?—    Ha! if by no vision I'm misled,     'Tis the footstep of a child of Rome.—    Son of Tiber—whence dost thou appear? Stands the seven-hilled city as of yore Oft her orphaned lot awakes my tear, For alas, her Caesar is no more? BRUTUS. Ha! thou with the three-and-twenty wounds! Who hath, dead one, summoned thee to light? Back to gaping Orcus' fearful bonds, Haughty mourner! triumph not to-night! On Philippi's iron altar, lo! Reeks now freedom's final victim's blood; Rome o'er Brutus' bier feels her death-throe,—     He seeks Minos.—Back to thy dark flood! CAESAR. Oh, the death-stroke Brutus' sword then hurled! Thou, too—Brutus—thou? Could this thing be? Son! It was thy father!—Son! the world Would have fallen heritage to thee! Go—'mongst Romans thou art deemed immortal, For thy steel hath pierced thy father's breast. Go—and shout it even to yon portal:    "Brutus is 'mongst Romans deemed immortal, For his steel hath pierced his father's breast."    Go—thou knowest now what on Lethe's strand Made me a prisoner stand.—    Now, grim steersman, push thy bark from land! BRUTUS. Father, stay!—In all earth's realms so fair, It hath been 

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