Out spake the bride's father, As he cam' in frae the pleugh: 'Oh, haud your tongue, my dochter, And ye'se get gear eneugh; The stirk stands i' the tether, And our braw bawsint yaud, Will carry ye hame your corn— What wad ye be at, ye jaud?'

Out spake the bride's mither: What deil needs a' this pride? I hadna a plack in my pouch That night I was a bride; My gown was linsey-woolsey, And ne'er a sark ava; And ye hae ribbons and buskins, Mae than ane or twa.'

Out spake the bride's brither, As he cam' in wi' the kye: 'Poor Willie wad ne'er hae ta'en ye, Had he kent ye as weel as I; For ye're baith proud and saucy, And no for a poor man's wife; Gin I canna get a better, I'se ne'er tak ane i' my life.'



ANONYMOUS

THE BRITISH GRENADIERS

SOME talk of Alexander, and some of Hercules, Of Hector and Lysander, and such great names as these, But of all the world's great heroes, there's none that can compare, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, to the British Grenadier!

Those heroes of antiquity ne'er saw a cannon ball, Or knew the force of powder to slay their foes withal; But our brave boys do know it, and banish all their fears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!

Whene'er we are commanded to storm the palisades, Our leaders march with fuses, and we with hand grenades, We throw them from the glacis, about the enemies' ears, Sing tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

And when the siege is over, we to the town repair, The townsmen cry, Hurrah, boys, here comes a Grenadier! Here come the Grenadiers, my boys, who know no doubts or fears!' Then sing, tow, row, row, row, row, row, the British Grenadiers!

Then let us fill a bumper, and drink a health to those Who carry caps and pouches, and wear the louped clothes, May they and their commanders live happy all their years, With a tow, row, row, row, row, row, for the British Grenadiers!



ANONYMOUS

HERE 'S TO THE MAIDEN

HERE 's to the maiden of bashful fifteen; Now to the widow of fifty; Here's to the flaunting extravagant quean And here's to the housewife that 's thrifty. Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove An excuse for the glass.

Here's to the charmer whose dimples we prize, Now to the damsel with none, Sir, Here's to the girl with a pair of blue eyes, And now to the nymph with but one, Sir.

Here's to the maid with a bosom of snow, Now to her that's as brown as a berry, Here's to the wife with a face full of woe, And now to the damsel that's merry.

For let her be clumsy, or let her be slim, Young or ancient, I care not a feather, So fill up a bumper, nay, fill to the brim, And let us e'en toast 'em together, Let the toast pass, Drink to the lass, I'll warrant she'll prove An excuse for the glass.



THOMAS CHATTERTON

BRISTOW TRAGEDY

THE feathered songster chanticleer Had wound his bugle-horn, And told the early villager The coming of the morn:

King Edward saw the ruddy streaks Of light eclipse the gray, And heard the raven's croaking throat, Proclaim the fated day.

'Thou'rt right,' quoth he, for by the God That sits enthroned on high! Charles Bawdin, and his fellows twain, To-day shall surely die.'

Then with a jug of nappy ale His knights did on him wait; 'Go tell the traitor, that to-day He leaves this mortal state.'

Sir Canterlone then bended low, With heart brimful of woe; He journeyed to the castle-gate, And to Sir Charles did go.

But when he came, his children twain, And eke his loving wife, With briny tears did wet the floor, For good Sir Charles's life.

'O good Sir Charles,' said Canterlone, 'Bad tidings I do bring.' 'Speak boldly, man,' said brave Sir Charles 'What says the traitor-king?'

'I grieve to tell: before yon sun Does from the welkin fly, He hath upon his honour sworn, That thou shalt surely die.'

'We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles, Of that I'm not afraid; What boots to live a little space? Thank Jesus, I'm prepared.

'But tell thy king, for mine he's not, I'd sooner die to-day, Than live his slave, as many are, Though I should live for aye.'

Then Canterlone he did go out, To tell the mayor straight To get all things in readiness For good Sir Charles's fate.

Then Mr. Canynge sought the king, And fell down on his knee; 'I'm come,' quoth he, unto your grace, To move your clemency.'

'Then,' quoth the king, your tale speak out, You have been much our friend: Whatever your request may be, We will to it attend.'

My noble liege, all my request Is for a noble knight, Who, though mayhap he has done wrong, He thought it still was right.

He has a spouse and children twain; All ruined are for aye, If that you are resolved to let Charles Bawdin die to-day.'

'Speak not of such a traitor vile,' The king in fury said; 'Before the evening-star doth shine, Bawdin shall lose his head:

'Justice does loudly for him call, And he shall have his meed: Speak, Mr. Canynge, what thing else At present do you need?'

'My noble liege,' good Canynge said, Leave justice to our God, And lay the iron rule aside; Be thine the olive rod.

'Was God to search our hearts and reins, The best were sinners great; Christ's vicar only knows no sin, In all this mortal state.

Let mercy rule thine infant reign, 'Twill fix thy crown full sure; From race to race thy family All sovereigns shall endure.

But if with blood and slaughter thou Begin thy infant reign, Thy crown upon thy children's brows Will never long remain.'

'Canynge, away! this traitor vile Has scorned my power and me; How canst thou, then, for such a man Entreat my clemency?'

'My noble liege, the truly brave Will valorous actions prize: Respect a brave and noble mind, Although in enemies.'

'Canynge, away! By God in heaven That did me being give, I will not taste a bit of bread Whilst this Sir Charles doth live!

'By Mary, and all saints in heaven, This sun shall be his last!' Then Canynge dropped a briny tear, And from the presence passed.

With heart brimful of gnawing grief, He to Sir Charles did go, And sat him down upon a stool, And tears began to flow.

We all must die,' said brave Sir Charles; 'What boots it how or when? Death is the sure, the certain fate, Of all we mortal men.

'Say why, my friend, thy honest soul Runs over at thine eye; Is it for my most welcome doom That thou dost child-like cry?'

Saith godly Canynge: 'I do weep, That thou so soon must die, And leave thy sons and helpless wife 'Tis this that wets mine eye.'

'Then dry the tears that out thine eye From godly fountains spring; Death I despise, and all the power Of Edward, traitor-king.

'When through the tyrant's welcome means I shall resign my life, The God I serve will soon provide For both my sons and wife.

'Before I saw the lightsome sun, This was appointed me; Shall mortal man repine or grudge What God ordains to be?

'How oft in battle have I stood, When thousands died around; When smoking streams of crimson blood Imbrued the fattened ground?

'How did I know that every dart That cut the airy way, Might not find passage to my heart, And close mine eyes for aye?

'And shall I now, for fear of death, Look wan and be dismayed? No! from my heart fly childish fear; Be all the man displayed.

'Ah, godlike Henry, God forefend, And guard thee and thy son, If 'tis his will; but if 'tis not, Why, then his will be done.

'My honest friend, my fault has been To serve God and my prince; And that I no time-server am, My death will soon convince.

'In London city was I born, Of parents of great note; My father did a noble arms Emblazon on his coat:

'I make no doubt but he is gone Where soon I hope to go, Where we for ever shall be blest, From out the reach of woe.

'He taught me justice and the laws With pity to unite; And eke he taught me how to know The wrong cause from the right:

'He taught me with a prudent hand To feed the hungry poor, Nor let my servants drive away The hungry from my door:

'And none can say but all my life I have his wordis kept; And summed the actions of the day Each night before I slept.

'I have a spouse, go ask of her If I defiled her bed? I have a king, and none can lay Black treason on my head.

'In Lent, and on the holy eve, From flesh I did refrain; Why should I then appear dismayed To leave this world of pain?

'No, hapless Henry, I rejoice I shall not see thy death; Most willingly in thy just cause Do I resign my breath.

'Oh, fickle people! ruined land! Thou wilt ken peace no moe; While Richard's sons exalt themselves, Thy brooks with blood will flow.

'Say, were ye tired of godly peace, And godly Henry's reign, That you did chop your easy days For those of blood and pain?

'What though I on a sledge be drawn, And mangled by a hind, I do defy the traitor's power; He cannot harm my mind:

'What though, uphoisted on a pole, My limbs shall rot in air, And no rich monument of brass Charles Bawdin's name shall bear;

'Yet in the holy book above, Which time can't eat away, There with the servants of the Lord My name shall live for aye.

'Then welcome death, for life eterne I leave this mortal life: Farewell, vain world, and all that's dear, My sons and loving wife!

'Now death as welcome to me comes As e'er the month of May; Now would I even wish to live, With my dear wife to stay.

Saith Canynge 'Tis a goodly thing To be prepared to die; And from this world of pain and grief To God in heaven to fly.'

And now the bell began to toll, And clarions to sound; Sir Charles he heard the horses' feet A-prancing on the ground.

And just before the officers, His loving wife came in, Weeping unfeigned tears of woe With loud and dismal din.

'Sweet Florence, now I pray forbear, In quiet let me die; Pray God that every Christian soul May look on death as I.

'Sweet Florence, why these briny tears? They wash my soul away, And almost make me wish for life, With thee, sweet dame, to stay.

''Tis but a journey I shall go Unto the land of bliss; Now, as a proof of husband's love Receive this holy kiss.'

Then Florence, faltering in her say, Trembling these wordis spoke: 'Ah, cruel Edward! bloody king! My heart is well-nigh broke.

'Ah, sweet Sir Charles, why wilt thou go Without thy loving wife? The cruel axe that cuts thy neck,' It eke shall end my life.'

And now the officers came in To bring Sir Charles away, Who turned to his loving wife, And thus to her did say:

'I go to life, and not to death; Trust thou in God above, And teach thy sons to fear the Lord, And in their hearts Him love.

'Teach them to run the noble race That I their father run. Florence, should death thee take—adieu! Ye officers, lead on.'

Then Florence raved as any mad, And did her tresses tear; 'O stay, my husband, lord, and life!' Sir Charles then dropped a tear.

Till tired out with raving loud, She fell upon the floor; Sir Charles exerted all his might, And marched from out the door.

Upon a sledge he mounted then, With looks full brave and sweet; Looks that enshone no more concern Than any in the street.

Before him went the council-men, In scarlet robes and gold, And tassels spangling in the sun, Much glorious to behold:

The friars of Saint Augustine next Appeared to the sight, All clad in homely russet weeds, Of godly monkish plight:

In different parts a godly psalm Most sweetly they did chant; Behind their back six minstrels came, Who tuned the strange bataunt.

Then five-and-twenty archers came; Each one the bow did bend, From rescue of King Henry's friends Sir Charles for to defend.

Bold as a lion came Sir Charles, Drawn on a cloth-laid sledde, By two black steeds in trappings white, With plumes upon their head.

Behind him five-and-twenty more Of archers strong and stout, With bended bow each one in hand, Marched in goodly rout.

Saint James's friars marched next, Each one his part did chant; Behind their backs six minstrels came, Who tuned the strange bataunt.

Then came the mayor and aldermen, In cloth of scarlet decked; And their attending men each one, Like eastern princes tricked.

And after them a multitude Of citizens did throng; The windows were all full of heads, As he did pass along.

And when he came to the high cross, Sir Charles did turn and say: O Thou that savest man from sin, Wash my soul clean this day.'

At the great minster window sat The king in mickle state, To see Charles Bawdin go along To his most welcome fate.

Soon as the sledde drew nigh enough, That Edward he might hear, The brave Sir Charles he did stand up, And thus his words declare:

'Thou seest me, Edward! traitor vile! Exposed to infamy; But be assured, disloyal man, I'm greater now than thee.

By foul proceedings, murder, blood, Thou wearest now a crown; And hast appointed me to die By power not thine own.

'Thou thinkest I shall die to-day; I have been dead till now, And soon shall live to wear a crown For aye upon my brow;

'Whilst thou, perhaps, for some few years, Shalt rule this fickle land, To let them know how wide the rule 'Twixt king and tyrant hand.

'Thy power unjust, thou traitor slave! Shall fall on thy own head'— From out of hearing of the king Departed then the sledde.

King Edward's soul rushed to his face, He turned his head away, And to his brother Gloucester He thus did speak and say:

'To him that so-much-dreaded death No ghastly terrors bring; Behold the man! he spake the truth; He's greater than a king!'

'So let him die!' Duke Richard said; 'And may each one our foes Bend down their necks to bloody axe, And feed the carrion crows.'

And now the horses gently drew Sir Charles up the high hill; The axe did glister in the sun, His precious blood to spill.

Sir Charles did up the scaffold go, As up a gilded car Of victory, by valorous chiefs Gained in the bloody war.

And to the people he did say: 'Behold you see me die, For serving loyally my king, My king most rightfully.

'As long as Edward rules this land, No quiet you will know; Your sons and husbands shall be slain, And brooks with blood shall flow.

'You leave your good and lawful king When in adversity; Like me, unto the true cause stick, And for the true cause die.'

Then he, with priests, upon his knees, A prayer to God did make, Beseeching Him unto Himself His parting soul to take.

Then, kneeling down, he laid his head Most seemly on the block; Which from his body fair at once The able headsman stroke:

And out the blood began to flow, And round the scaffold twine; And tears, enough to wash't away, Did flow from each man's eyne.

The bloody axe his body fair Into four partis cut; And every part, and eke his head, Upon a pole was put.

One part did rot on Kinwulph-hill, One on the minster-tower, And one from off the castle-gate The crowen did devour.

The other on Saint Paul's good gate, A dreary spectacle; His head was placed on the high cross, In high street most noble.

Thus was the end of Bawdin's fate: God prosper long our king, And grant he may, with Bawdin's soul, In heaven God s mercy sing!

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

OH, sing unto my roundelay; Oh, drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be; My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below: My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Quick in dance as thought was he; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; Oh! he lies by the willow-tree. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing, In the briered dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing, To the nightmares as they go. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day, My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree.

Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die—I come—my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died.



WILLIAM BLAKE

THE PIPER

PIPING down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me,

'Pipe a song about a lamb,' So I piped with merry cheer; Piper, pipe that song again,' So I piped: he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer.' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight: And I plu ck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear.

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire— What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee?



ROBERT BURNS

SCOTS WHA HAE

SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power— Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's King and Law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? Let him follow me!

By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty's in every blow! Let us do, or die!

FOR A' THAT

IS there, for honest poverty, That hings his head, and a' that; The coward-slave, we pass him by, We dare be poor for a' that! For a' that, and a' that; Our toils obscure, and a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp: The man's the gowd for a' that.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine, Wear hoddin grey, and a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, and a' that, Their tinsel show, and a' that; The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,' Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a coof for a' that: For a' that, and a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that, The man of independent mind, He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that; But an honest man's aboon his might, Guid faith he mauna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities, and a' that, The pith o sense an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that; That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, May bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er, Shall brothers be for a' that.

A RED, RED ROSE

O, MY luve 's like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June: O, my luve's like the melodie That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonie lass, So deep in luve am I: And I will luve thee still, my dear, Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, And the rocks melt wi' the sun: I will luve thee still, my dear, While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only luve, And fare thee weel awhile! And I will come again, my luve Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

COMIN' THRO' THE RYE

O, JENNY'S a' weet, poor body, Jenny's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye.

Comin' thro' the rye, poor body, Comin' thro' the rye, She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye!

Gin a body meet a body— Comin' thro' the rye; Gin a body kiss a body— Need a body cry?

Gin a body meet a body Comin' thro' the glen, Gin a body kiss a body Need the warld ken?

Jenny 's a' weet, poor body; Jenny 's seldom dry; She draigl't a' her petticoatie, Comin' thro' the rye.

PHILLIS THE FAIR

WHILE larks with little wing Fann'd the pure air, Tasting the breathing spring, Forth I did fare: Gay the sun's golden eye Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 'Such thy morn,' did I cry, 'Phillis the fair!'

In each bird's careless song Glad did I share; While yon wild flowers among, Chance led me there: Sweet to the opening day, Rosebuds bent the dewy spray; 'Such thy bloom,' did I say, 'Phillis the fair!'

Down in a shady walk, Doves cooing were, I mark'd the cruel hawk Caught in a snare; So kind may Fortune be, Such make his destiny, He who would injure thee, Phillis the fair!

AE FOND KISS

AE fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met—or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas! for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

MY BONNY MARY

GO fetch to me a pint o' wine, And fill it in a silver tassie; That I may drink, before I go, A service to my bonny lassie; The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith, Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the Ferry; The ship rides by the Berwick law, And I maun leave my bonny Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, The glittering spears are ranked ready; The shouts o' war are heard afar, The battle closes thick and bloody; But it's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me langer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary.

AFTON WATER

FLOW gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; There daily I wander as noon rises high, My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below, Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea, The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, As gathering sweet flow'rets she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; My Mary 's asleep by thy murmuring stream, Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY

MY heart is sair, I daurna tell, My heart is sair for Somebody; I could wake a winter night, For the sake o' Somebody! Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I could range the world around, For the sake o' Somebody.

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, O, sweetly smile on Somebody! Frae ilka danger keep him free, And send me safe my Somebody. Oh-hon! for Somebody! Oh-hey! for Somebody! I wad do—what wad I not? For the sake o' Somebody!

WHISTLE, AND I 'LL COME TO YE, MY LAD

O WHISTLE, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

But warily tent, when ye come to court me, And come na unless the back-yett be a-jee; Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, And come as ye were na comin' to me.

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.

Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me, And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee; But court na anither, tho jokin' ye be, For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me.

O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; O whistle, and I 'll come to ye, my lad: Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad.

THE DE'IL'S AWA' WI' THE EXCISEMAN

THE De'il cam fiddling thro' the town, And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman; And ilka wife cry'd 'Auld Mahoun, We wish you luck o' your prize, man.

'We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.

'There's threesome reels, and foursome reels, There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; But the ae best dance that cam to our lan', Was—the De'il 's awa wi' the Exciseman.

We'll mak our maut, and brew our drink, We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man; And monie thanks to the muckle black De'il That danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman.'

LASSIE WI' THE LINT-WHITE LOCKS

LASSIE wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?

Now nature cleeds the flowery lea, And a' is young and sweet like thee; O wilt thou share its joys wi' me, And say thou'lt be my dearie O?

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

And when the welcome simmer-shower Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, We'll to the breathing woodbine bower At sultry noon, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, The weary shearer's hameward way, Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, And talk o' love, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks . . .

And when the howling wintry blast Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, I'll comfort thee, my dearie O. Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, Bonie lassie, artless lassie, Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? Wilt thou be my dearie O?

I LOVE MY JEAN

OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, I dearly like the west, For there the bonie lassie lives, The lassie I lo'e best:

There wild woods grow, and rivers row, And monie a hill between; But day and night my fancy's flight Is ever wi' my Jean.

I see her in the dewy flowers, I see her sweet and fair: I hear her in the tunefu' birds, I hear her charm the air:

There's not a bonie flower that springs By fountain, shaw, or green; There's not a bonie bird that sings, But, minds me o' my Jean.

THE HAPPY TRIO

O, WILLIE brew'd a peck o' maut, And Rob and Allan cam to pree; Three blither hearts that lee-lang night, Ye wad na find in Christendie.

We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

Here are we met, three merry boys, Three merry boys, I trove, are we; And monie a night we've merry been, And monie mae we hope to be!

It is the moon, I ken her horn, That's blinkin' in the lift sae hie; She shines sae bright to wyle us hame, But by my sooth she'll wait a wee!

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, A cuckold, coward loun is he! Wha first beside his chair shall fa', He is the King amang us three! We are na fou, we're no that fou, But just a drappie in our ee: The cock may craw, the day may daw, And aye we'll taste the barley bree.

JOHN ANDERSON MY JO

JOHN ANDERSON my jo, John, When we were first acquent, Your locks were like the raven, Your bonie brow was brent; But now your brow is beld, John, Your locks are like the snaw; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson my jo.

John Anderson my jo, John We clamb the hill thegither; And monie a canty day, John, We've had wi' ane anither: Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we'll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson my jo.

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING

SHE is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

I never saw a fairer, I never lo'ed a dearer, And neist my heart I'll wear her, For fear my jewel tine.

She is a winsome wee thing, She is a handsome wee thing, She is a bonie wee thing, This sweet wee wife o' mine.

The warld's wrack, we share o't, The warstle and the care o't; Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, And think my lot divine.

DUNCAN GRAY

DUNCAN GRAY came here to woo, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, On blithe yule night when we were fou, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Maggie coost her head fu' high, Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Time and chance are but a tide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Slighted love is sair to bide, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, For a haughty hizzie die? She may gae to—France for me! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

How it comes let doctors tell, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Meg grew sick—as he grew well, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Something in her bosom wrings, For relief a sigh she brings; And O, her een, they spak sic things! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

Duncan was a lad o' grace, Ha, ha, the wooing o't, Maggie's was a piteous case, Ha, ha, the wooing o't. Duncan couldna be her death, Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; Now they 're crouse and cantie baith! Ha, ha, the wooing o't.

MY AIN KIND DEARIE O

WHEN o'er the hill the eastern star Tells bughtin-time is near, my jo; And owsen frae the furrow'd field Return sae dowf and wearie O; Down by the burn, where scented birks Wi' dew are hanging clear, my jo, I 'll meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, If thro' that glen I gaed to thee, My ain kind dearie O. Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild, And I were ne'er sae wearie O, I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

The hunter lo'es the morning sun, To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; At noon the fisher seeks the glen, Along the burn to steer, my jo; Gie me the hour o' gloamin' grey, It maks my heart sae cheery O, To meet thee on the lea-rig, My ain kind dearie O.

THE THORN

FROM the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested A sprig her fair breast to adorn, From the white blossom'd sloe my dear Chloe requested, A sprig her fair breast to adorn. No! By heav'n! I exclaimed, may I perish, If ever I plant in that bosom a thorn!

When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn, When I show'd her a ring, and implor'd her to marry, She blushed like the dawning of morn. Yes! I'll consent, she replied, if you promise, That no jealous rival shall laugh me to scorn.

JOHN BARLEYCORN

THERE was three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head well-armed wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They 've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe, And still as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of noble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy; 'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a glass in hand; And may his great prosperity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!



ANONYMOUS

THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER

ON the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all. For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more. For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast. But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.



SAMUEL ROGERS

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE

DEAR is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every passing villager; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And shells his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

A WISH

MINE be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter near her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church beneath the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.



ROBERT BLOOMFIELD

THE FAKENHAM GHOST

THE lawns were dry in Euston park; (Here Truth inspires my tale) The lonely footpath, still and dark, Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops, But followed faster still, And echoed to the darksome copse That whispered on the hill;

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, Bespoke a peopled shade, And many a wing the foliage brushed, And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer, That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear, And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind— When now a short quick step she hears Come patting close behind.

She turned; it stopped; nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain! But as she strove the sprite to flee, She heard the same again.

Now terror seized her quaking frame, For, where the path was bare, The trotting Ghost kept on the same She muttered many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright, She tried what sight could do; When through the cheating glooms of night A monster stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt, It followed down the plain! She owned her sins, and down she knelt And said her prayers again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong, The white park gate in view; Which pushing hard, so long it swung That Ghost and all passed through.

Loud fell the gate against the post! Her heart-strings like to crack; For much she feared the grisly Ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, As it had done before; Her strength and resolution spent, She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised, Out came her daughter dear; Good-natured souls! all unadvised Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night, Some short space o'er the green; And there the little trotting sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An ass's foal had lost its dam Within the spacious park; And simple as the playful lamb Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin; No crimes had ever known; They took the shaggy stranger in, And reared him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the cottage floor; The matron learned to love the sound That frightened her before.

A favourite the Ghost became, And 'twas his fate to thrive; And long he lived and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale; And some conviction too: Each thought some other goblin tale, Perhaps, was just as true.



ANONYMOUS

THE KEEL ROW

As I came thro' Sandgate, Thro' Sandgate, thro' Sandgate, As I came thro' Sandgate I heard a lassie sing, O weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row, O weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

O wha 's like my Johnny, Sae leith, sae blythe, sae bonny? He's foremost among the mony Keel lads o' coaly Tyne: He'll set and row so tightly, Or in the dance—so sprightly— He'll cut and shuffle sightly; 'Tis true,—were he not mine.

He wears a blue bonnet, Blue bonnet, blue bonnet; He wears a blue bonnet, And a dimple in his chin: And weel may the keel row, The keel row, the keel row; And weel may the keel row, That my laddie's in.

THE BLUE BELL OF SCOTLAND

OH where, and oh where, is your Highland laddie gone? He's gone to fight the French for King George upon the throne; And it's oh, in my heart, how I wish him safe at home!

Oh where, and oh where, does your Highland laddie dwell? He dwells in merry Scotland, at the sign of the Blue Bell; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my laddie well.

In what clothes, in what clothes is your Highland laddie clad? His bonnet's of the Saxon green, his waistcoat's of the plaid; And it's oh, in my heart, that I love my Highland lad.

Suppose, oh, suppose that your Highland lad should die? The bagpipes shall play over him, and I'll lay me down and cry; And it's oh, in my heart, I wish he may not die.



LADY NAIRNE

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

THE Laird o' Cockpen he's proud an' he's great, His mind is ta'en up wi' the things o' the State; He wanted a wife his braw house to keep, But favour wi' wooin' was fashious to seek.

Doon by the dyke-side a lady did dwell, At his table-head he thocht she 'd look well; M'Cleish's ae dochter, o' Clavers-ha' Lee, A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd, as gude as when new; His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue; He put on a ring, a sword, an' cocked hat, An' wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, he rade cannilie, An' rapped at the yett o' Clavers-ha' Lee; 'Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,— She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen.'

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flow'r wine; 'An' what brings the Laird at sic a like time?' She put aff her apron, an' on her silk goon, Her mutch wi' red ribbons, an' gaed awa doon.

An' when she cam' ben he bowed fu' low, An' what was his errand he soon let her know; Amazed was the Laird when the lady said Na!' An' wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'!

Dumfounder'd was he, but nae sigh did he gi'e, He mounted his mare an' he rade cannilie; An' often he thocht, as he gaed through the glen, 'She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen!'

CALLER HERRIN'

WHA'LL buy my caller herrin'? They're bonnie fish and halesome farin'; Wha'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?

When ye were sleepin' on your pillows, Dreamed ye aught o' our puir fellows, Darkling as they faced the billows, A' to fill the woven willows? Buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth.

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They 're no brought here without brave darin'; Buy my caller herrin', Hauled thro' wind and rain. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? Oh, ye may ca' them vulgar farin'; Wives and mithers, maist despairin', Ca' them lives o' men. Wha ll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

When the creel o' herrin' passes, Ladies, clad in silks and laces, Gather in their braw pelisses, Cast their heads, and screw their faces. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Caller herrin's no got lightlie, Ye can trip the spring fu' tightlie; Spite o' tauntin', flauntin', flingin', Gow has set you a' a-singin' Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? . . .

Neebour wives, now tent my tellin', When the bonnie fish ye're sellin', At ae word be in yer dealin'— Truth will stand when a' thing's failin'. Wha'll buy my caller herrin'? They 're bonnie fish and halesome farin' Wha 'll buy my caller herrin', New drawn frae the Forth?



CHARLES DIBDIN

TOM BOWLING

HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling, The darling of our crew; No more he'll hear the tempest howling, For death has broach'd him to. His form was of the manliest beauty, His heart was kind and soft, Faithful, below, he did his duty But now he's gone aloft.

Tom never from his word departed, His virtues were so rare; His friends were many and true-hearted, His Poll was kind and fair: And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly, Ah, many 's the time and oft! But mirth is turned to melancholy, For Tom is gone aloft.

Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather, When He, who all commands, Shall give, to call life's crew together, The word to pipe all hands. Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches, In vain Tom's life has doff'd, For, though his body's under hatches, His soul has gone aloft.

BLOW HIGH, BLOW LOW

BLOW high, blow low, let tempests tear The mainmast by the board; My heart with thoughts of thee, my dear, And love, well stored, Shall brave all danger, scorn all fear, The roaring winds, the raging sea, In hopes on shore To be once more Safe moor'd with thee!

Aloft while mountains high we go, The whistling winds that scud along, And surges roaring from below, Shall my signal be, To think on thee, And this shall be my song: Blow high, blow low.

And on that night when all the crew The mem'ry of their former lives O'er flowing cans of flip renew, And drink their sweethearts and their wives, I'll heave a sigh, and think on thee; And, as the ship rolls through the sea, The burthen of my song shall be Blow high, blow low.

THE JOLLY YOUNG WATERMAN

AND did you not hear of a jolly young Waterman, Who at Blackfriars Bridge us'd for to ply, And he feather'd his oars with such skill and dexterity, Winning each heart and delighting each eye. He look'd so neat and row'd so steadily, The maidens all flock'd to his boat so readily, And he eyed the young rogues with so charming an air, That this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

What sights of fine folks he oft row'd in his wherry, 'Twas cleaned out so nice and so painted withall, He always was first oars when the fine city ladies, In a party to Ranelagh went, or Vauxhall. And oft-times would they be giggling and leering, But 'twas all one to Tom their jibing and jeering, For loving or liking he little did care, For this Waterman ne'er was in want of a fare.

And yet but to see how strangely things happen, As he row'd along thinking of nothing at all, He was ply'd by a damsel so lovely and charming, That she smil'd, and so straightway in love he did fall. And would this young damsel e'en banish his sorrow, He'd wed her to-night, before even to-morrow, And how should this Waterman ever know care, When he's married and never in want of a fare?



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

PART I

[An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.]

IT is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

'The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, And I am next of kin; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

[The Wedding-Guest is spellbound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.]

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone: He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

[The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.]

'The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right, Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon'— The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

[The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.]

The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.

[The ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.]

'And now the storm-blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist sand snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.

[The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.]

And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!

[Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.]

At length did cross an Albatross: Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through!

[And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog and floating ice.]

And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white moon-shine.'

[The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.]

'God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look'st thou so?'—'With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross!

PART II

'THE Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo!

[His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.]

And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe; For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. "Ah wretch," said they, "the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!"

[But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same. and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.]

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist. "'Twas right," said they, "such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist."

[The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.]

The fair breeze blew the white foam flew, The furrow streamed off free: We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

[The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.]

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

[And the Albatross begins to be avenged.]

Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white.

[A spirit had followed them: one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.]

And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

[The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.]

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

PART III

[The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.]

'HERE passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye! When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed a mist: It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered.

[At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.]

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, "A sail! a sail!"

[A flash of joy.]

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.

[And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide?]

"See! see!" (I cried) "she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel!"

The western wave was all a-flame, The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.

[It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.]

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) As if through a dungeon grate he peered, With broad and burning face.

"Alas!" (thought I, and my heart beat loud) "How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres?"

[And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The spectre- woman and her death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew!]

'Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a DEATH? and are there two? Is DEATH that woman's mate?"

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold.

[Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.]

The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; "The game is done! I 'ye won, I've won!" Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clomb above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.

[At the rising of the Moon, one after another, his shipmates drop down dead.]

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one.

[But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.]

The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

PART IV

[The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him; but the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.]

'I FEAR thee, Ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'— 'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

[He despiseth the creatures of the calm, And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.]

The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

[But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.]

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

[In his loneliness and fixedness, he yearneth towards the Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country, and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.]

The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red.

[By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.]

Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.

[Their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them in his heart.]

O happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware! Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

[The spell begins to break.]

The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.

PART V

'OH sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.

[By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.]

The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.

I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep And was a blessed ghost.

[He heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.]

And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life, And a hundred fire-flags sheen; To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain poured down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The, lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.

[The bodies of the ship's crew are inspirited, and the ship moves on;]

The loud wind never reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan.

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up blew; The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do: They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.'

[But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.]

'I fear thee, Ancient Mariner!' 'Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

[The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.]

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid; and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean; But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.

[The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.]

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.

"Is it he?" quoth one, "is this the man? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, "The man hath penance done, And penance more will do."

PART VI

First Voice

"BUT tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the Ocean doing?"

Second Voice

"Still as a slave before his lord, The Ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him."

[The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward, faster than human life could endure.]

First Voice

"But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?"

Second Voice

"The air is cut away before, And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner's trance is abated."

[The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.]

I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: 'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.

[The curse is finally expiated,]

And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen.

Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.

[And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.]

Oh dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— "O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway."

The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock.

[The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, And appear in their own forms of light.]

And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light:

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

PART VII

[The Hermit of the Wood]

'THIS Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk of marineres That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?"

[Approacheth the ship with wonder.]

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said— "And they answered not our cheer! the with The planks look warped and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along: When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look" (The Pilot made reply) "I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on!" Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

[The ship suddenly sinketh.]

Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.

[The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned, My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

[The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit crossed his brow. "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

[And ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,]

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door The wedding-guests are there; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

[And to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.



ANONYMOUS

THE VICAR OF BRAY

IN good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous High Churchman was I, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss'd, Kings were by God appointed; And damn'd are those who do resist, Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtained the crown, And Pop'ry came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit, But' for the Revolution.

When William was our King declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional Conformists base, I damn'd their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, I turned a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.

The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear, While they can keep possession; For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, And George my lawful King shall be, Until the times do alter.

And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.



WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE

THERE 'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE

BUT are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. There 's nae luck about the house, There 's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa'.

Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin 's at the door? Rax down my cloak—I'll to the key, And see him come ashore. Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockins white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman He likes to see them braw. There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair, Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare.

Bring down to me my bigonet, My bishop's sattin gown, For I maun tell the bailie's wife, That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stockins pearl blue It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: In troth, I'm like to greet.



ANONYMOUS

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill, And o'er the moor and valley; Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, Since parting with my Sally. I seek no more the fine or gay, For each does but remind me How swift the hours did pass away, With the girl I've left behind me.

Oh, ne'er shall I forget the night The stars were bright above me, And gently lent their silv'ry light When first she vowed to love me. But now I'm bound to Brighton camp Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl I've left behind me.

My mind her form shall still retain, In sleeping, or in waking, Until I see my love again, For whom my heart is breaking. If ever I return that way, And she should not decline me, I evermore will live and stay With the girl I've left behind me.



SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE

EDWARD! EDWARD!

'WHY does your brand so drop with blood? Edward! Edward! Why does your brand so drop with blood? And why so sad go ye, O?'

'O! I have killed my hawk so good, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my hawk so good, And I have no more but he, O!'

'Your hawk's blood was never so red, Edward! Edward! Your hawk's blood was never so red, My dear son, I tell thee, O!'

'O! I have killed my red roan steed, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my red roan steed, That once was fair and free, O!'

'Your steed was old and ye have got more, Edward! Edward! Your steed was old and ye have got more,— Some other dule you drie, O!'

'O! I have killed my father dear, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my father dear, Alas, and woe is me, O!'

'And what penance will ye drie for that? Edward! Edward? And what penance will ye drie for that? My dear son, now tell me, O!'

I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mother! Mother! I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O!'

'And what will you do with your towers and your hall? Edward! Edward! And what will you do with your towers and your hall? They were so fair to see, O!'

'I'll let them stand till they down fall, Mother! Mother! I'll let them stand till they down fall, For here never more must I be, O!'

'And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? Edward! Edward! And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? When you go over the sea, O!'

'The world's room, let them beg through life, Mother! Mother! The world's room, let them beg through life, For them never more will I see, O!

'And what will you leave to your own mother dear? Edward! Edward! And what will you leave to your own mother dear? My dear son, now tell me, O!'

'The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Mother! Mother! The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Such counsels you gave to me, O!'



THOMAS PERCY

NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

O NANNY, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare,— Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

IT was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.'

'And how should I know your true-love From many another one?' 'Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon.

'But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyes of lovely blue.'

'O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green-grass turf, And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloisters long He languish'd, and he died Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride.

They bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall.'

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone; And didst thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone!'

'Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'

Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die.'

'Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower Will ne'er make grow again.

'Our joys as winged dreams do fly, Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss, Grieve not for what is past.'

'Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.

'And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again? Ah no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain.

'His cheek was redder than the rose; The comeliest youth was he; But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me!'

'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never.

'Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy.'

'Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; My love he had the truest heart, Oh, he was ever true!

'And art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth, And didst thou die for me? Then farewell, home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be.'

'But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.'

'Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while Beneath this cloister wall; See, through the thorn blows cold the wind And drizzly rain doth fall.'

Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; Oh, stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away.'

'Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears' For see, beneath this gown of grey Thy own true-love appears.

'Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought, And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.

'But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay.'

'Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.'



ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE INCHCAPE ROCK

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was still as she could be, Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves How'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothock Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothock.

The Sun in heaven was shining gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, And there was joyaunce in the sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen, A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float, Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inch cape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the Bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles arose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away, He scour'd the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the Sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.

On deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land; Quoth Sir Ralph, It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising Moon.'

Canst hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar? For methinks we should be near the shore.' 'Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock,— 'Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curst himself in his despair; But the waves rush in on every side, And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.

'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

'Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.'

I have left a good woman who never was here,' The stranger he made reply, 'But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?'

'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, 'many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And before the angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell.

If the husband, of this gifted Well, Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

'But if the wife shall drink of it first, God help the husband then!' The stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

'You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?' He to the Cornish-man said: But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But I' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.'

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

IT was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'Who fell in that great victory.

'I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,' said he, Were slain in that great victory.'

Now tell us what 'twas all about,' Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'

It was the English,' Kaspar cried, Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said,' quoth he, That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a tender mother then, And new-born baby, died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory;

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene.'— 'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine. Nay—nay—my little girl,' quoth he, It was a famous victory;

'And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it at last?' Quoth little Peterkin. 'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he, 'But 'twas a famous victory.'

FATHER WILLIAM

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied; Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.



MRS. COCKBURN

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I'VE seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now it is fled—it is fled far away.

I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonny was their blooming! Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away.

I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day, I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.

O fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

LUCY GRAY

OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray; And, when I crossed the wild, I chanced to see at break of day, The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew; She dwelt on a wide moor, —The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play, The hare upon the green; But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen.

'To-night will be a stormy night— You to the town must go; And take a lantern, child, to light Your mother through the snow.'

'That, father, will I gladly do! 'Tis scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, And yonder is the moon.'

At this the father raised his hook And snapped a fagot band; He plied his work;—and Lucy took The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down: And many a hill did Lucy climb; But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night, Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from the door.

And, turning homeward, now they cried, 'In heaven we all shall meet!' —When in the snow the mother spied The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge They tracked the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone wall:

And then an open field they crossed: The marks were still the same; They tracked them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank The footmarks, one by one, Into the middle of the plank; And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day She is a living child; That you may see sweet Lucy Gray Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along, And never looks behind; And sings a solitary song That whistles in the wind.

WE ARE SEVEN

A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad.

Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all,' she said, And wondering looked at me.

'And where are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

'Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.'

'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?'

Then did the little maid reply, 'Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.'

'You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five.'

'Their graves are green, they may be seen,' The little maid replied, Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

'My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit— I sit and sing to them.

'And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

'The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain: And then she went away.

'So in the churchyard she was laid; And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

'And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.'

'How many are you, then,' said I, 'If they two are in heaven?' The little maiden did reply, 'O master! we are seven.'

'But they are dead: those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'

SHE DWELT AMONG UNTRODDEN WAYS

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, the melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.



SIR WALTER SCOTT

LOCHINVAR

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,— 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?