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THE BURNING OF STOUGHTON.

BY SIR W-LT-R SC-TT.

"A rope! a blanket!" was the cry.

Chairs, books, and things from windows fly,

And then are caught, - most of them, though,

By members of the Nine below.

The things were piled up in the Yard;

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No Rifle Corps was there to guard,

But sitting on the pile we saw

One solitary janitor,

Who, asked if it was hard to sit,

Replied that he was used to it.

By Holden's side, unseen betimes,

Rested the fair one of my rhymes.

Ask me not what the maiden feels,

Left alone in this dreadful hour.

Perchance she only stands and squeals,

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