And, thus continuing, she said, 'I had a son, who many a day Sail'd on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught that he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his: 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages The singing bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.'

W. Wordsworth



XCV

MAHMOUD

There came a man, making his hasty moan Before the Sultan Mahmoud on his throne, And crying out—'My sorrow is my right, And I will see the Sultan, and to-night.' 'Sorrow,' said Mahmoud, 'is a reverend thing: I recognise its right as king with king; Speak on.' 'A fiend has got into my house,' Exclaim'd the staring man, 'and tortures us: One of thine officers;—he comes, the abhorr'd, And takes possession of my house, my board, My bed:—I have two daughters and a wife, And the wild villain comes and makes me mad with life.'

'Is he there now?' said Mahmoud. 'No, he left The house when I did, of my wits bereft; And laugh'd me down the street because I vow'd I'd bring the prince himself to lay him in his shroud. I'm mad with want, I'm mad with misery, And Oh, thou Sultan Mahmoud, God cries out for thee!'

The Sultan comforted the man and said, 'Go home, and I will send thee wine and bread. (For he was poor,) and other comforts. Go; And should the wretch return let Sultan Mahmoud know.'

In two days' time, with haggard eyes and beard, And shaken voice, the suitor re-appeared, And said, 'He's come.'—Mahmoud said not a word, But rose and took four slaves each with a sword, And went with the vext man. They reach the place, And hear a voice and see a female face, That to the window flutter'd in affright. 'Go in,' said Mahmoud, 'and put out the light; But tell the females first to leave the room; And when the drunkard follows them, we come.

The man went in. There was a cry, and hark! A table falls, the window is struck dark; Forth rush the breathless women, and behind With curses comes the fiend in desperate mind. In vain: the sabres soon cut short the strife, And chop the shrieking wretch, and drink his bloody life.

'Now light the light,' the Sultan cried aloud. 'Twas done; he took it in his hand and bow'd Over the corpse, and look'd upon the face; Then turn'd and knelt beside it in the place, And said a prayer, and from his lips there crept Some gentle words of pleasure, and he wept.

In reverent silence the spectators wait, Then bring him at his call both wine and meat; And when he had refresh'd his noble heart, He bade his host be blest, and rose up to depart.

The man amaz'd, all mildness now and tears, Fell at the Sultan's feet with many prayers, And begg'd him to vouchsafe to tell his slave, The reason first of that command he gave About the light: then when he saw the face, Why he knelt down; and lastly how it was That fare so poor as his detain'd him in the place.

The Sultan said, with much humanity, 'Since first I heard thee come, and heard thy cry, I could not rid me of a dread that one By whom such daring villanies were done, Must be some lord of mine, perhaps a lawless son. Whoe'er he was, I knew my task, but fear'd A father's heart, in case the worst appear'd. For this I had the light put out. But when I saw the face and found a stranger slain, I knelt and thank'd the sovereign arbiter, Whose work I had perform'd through pain and fear. And then I rose and was refresh'd with food, The first time since thou cam'st and marr'd'st my solitude.'

L. Hunt



XCVI

AUTUMN

A Dirge

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying; And the year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead Is lying. Come, Months, come away, From November to May, In your saddest array,— Follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year; The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone To his dwelling. Come, Months, come away; Put on white, black, and grey; Let your light sisters play; Ye, follow the bier Of the dead cold year, And make her grave green with tear on tear.

P. B. Shelley



XCVII

THE RAVEN

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. ''Tis some visitor,' I mutter'd, 'tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wish'd the morrow;—vainly had I sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow, sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrill'd me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating, ''Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more.'

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, 'Sir,' said I, 'or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you;' here I open'd wide the door;— Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whisper'd word 'Lenore!' This I whisper'd, and an echo murmur'd back the word 'Lenore'— Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon I heard again a tapping somewhat louder than before, 'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then what thereat is, and this mystery explore— Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;— 'Tis the wind, and nothing more!'

Open here I flung a shutter, when with many a flirt and flutter In there stepp'd a stately raven of the saintly days of yore; Not the least obeisance made he; not an instant stopp'd or stay'd he; But with mien of lord or lady, perch'd above my chamber door— Perch'd upon a bust of Pallas, just above my chamber door— Perch'd and sat and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, 'Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, 'art sure no craven, Ghastly, grim, and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore, Tell me what thy lordly name is on the night's Plutonian shore: Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore!'

Much I marvell'd this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blest with seeing bird above his chamber door, Bird or beast upon the sculptur'd bust above his chamber door, With such a name as 'Nevermore.'

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour; Nothing farther then he utter'd—not a feather then he flutter'd— Till I scarcely more than mutter'd, 'Other friends have flown before— On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said 'Nevermore.'

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, 'Doubtless,' said I, 'what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Follow'd fast and follow'd faster, till his songs one burden bore— Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of 'Never—nevermore.'

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheel'd a cushion'd seat in front of bird, and bust, and door; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore— What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking 'Nevermore.'

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burnt into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining, with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore!

'Prophet!' said I, 'thing of evil—prophet still, if bird or devil! By that heaven that bends above us, by that God we both adore— Tell this soul, with sorrow laden, if within the distant Aidenn It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.' Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.'

'Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shriek'd, upstarting— 'Get thee back into the tempest and the night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of the lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken, quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart and take thy form from off my door! Quoth the raven 'Nevermore.'

And the raven never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting, On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a daemon's that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that is floating on the floor Shall be lifted 'Nevermore.'

E. A. Poe



XCVIII

THE NIX

The crafty Nix, more false than fair Whose haunt in arrowy Iser lies, She envied me my golden hair, She envied me my azure eyes.

The moon with silvery ciphers traced The leaves, and on the waters play'd; She rose, she caught me round the waist, She said, 'Come down with me, fair maid.'

She led me to her crystal grot, She set me in her coral chair, She waved her hand, and I had not Or azure eyes or golden hair.

Her locks of jet, her eyes of flame Were mine, and hers my semblance fair; 'O make me, Nix, again the same, O give me back my golden hair!'

She smiles in scorn, she disappears, And here I sit and see no sun, My eyes of fire are quenched in tears, And all my darksome locks undone.

R. Garnett



XCIX

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

1

Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, All children of one mother: You could not say in one short day What love they bore each other. A garland, of seven lilies wrought! Seven sisters that together dwell; But he, bold knight as ever fought, Their father, took of them no thought, He loved the wars so well. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

2

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind, And from the shores of Erin, Across the wave, a rover brave To Binnorie is steering: Right onward to the Scottish strand The gallant ship is borne; The warriors leap upon the land, And hark! the leader of the band Hath blown his bugle horn. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

3

Beside a grotto of their own, With boughs above them closing, The seven are laid, and in the shade They lie like fawns reposing. But now upstarting with affright At noise of man and steed, Away they fly, to left, to right— Of your fair household, father-knight, Methinks you take small heed! Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

4

Away the seven fair Campbells fly; And, over hill and hollow, With menace proud, and insult loud, The youthful rovers follow. Cried they, 'Your father loves to roam: Enough for him to find The empty house when he comes home; For us your yellow ringlets comb, For us be fair and kind!' Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

5

Some close behind, some side by side, Like clouds in stormy weather, They run and cry, 'Nay let us die, And let us die together.' A lake was near; the shore was steep; There foot had never been; They ran, and with a desperate leap Together plunged into the deep, Nor ever more were seen. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

6

The stream that flows out of the lake, As through the glen it rambles, Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone For those seven lovely Campbells. Seven little islands, green and bare, Have risen from out the deep: The fishers say those sisters fair By fairies are all buried there, And there together sleep. Sing mournfully, oh! mournfully, The solitude of Binnorie!

W. Wordsworth



C

THE BEGGAR MAID

Her arms across her breast she laid; She was more fair than words can say; Barefooted came the beggar maid Before the King Cophetua. In robe and crown the king stept down, To meet and greet her on her way; 'It is no wonder,' said the lords, 'She is more beautiful than day.'

As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen: One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been: Cophetua swore a royal oath: 'This beggar maid shall be my queen.'

A. Tennyson



CI

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

The Wildgrave winds his bugle horn, To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo! His fiery courser snuffs the morn, And thronging serfs their lords pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed, Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

The beams of God's own hallow'd day Had painted yonder spire with gold, And calling sinful man to pray, Loud, long, and deep the bell had tolled.

But still the Wildgrave onward rides; Halloo, halloo! and, hark again! When spurring from opposing sides, Two stranger horsemen join the train.

Who was each stranger, left and right, Well may I guess but dare not tell; The right-hand steed was silver white, The left, the swarthy hue of hell.

The right-hand horseman, young and fair, His smile was like the morn of May; The left, from eye of tawny glare, Shot midnight lightning's lurid ray.

He waved his huntsman's cap on high, Cried, 'Welcome, welcome, noble lord! What sport can earth, or sea, or sky, To match the princely chase afford?'

'Cease thy loud bugle's clanging knell,' Cried the fair youth with silver voice; 'And for devotion's choral swell, Exchange this rude unhallow'd noise;

'To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the warning Spirit hear, To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain.'

'Away, and sweep the glades along!' The sable hunter hoarse replies; 'To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries.'

The Wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, And, launching forward with a bound, 'Who, for thy drowsy priestlike rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

'Hence, if our manly sport offend! With pious fools go chant and pray; Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd friend Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!'

The Wildgrave spurr'd his courser light, O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill; And on the left and on the right, Each stranger horseman follow'd still.

Up springs from yonder tangled thorn A stag more white than mountain snow; And louder rung the Wildgrave's horn, 'Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!'

A heedless wretch has cross'd the way; He gasps, the thundering hoofs below; But live who can, or die who may, Still 'Forward, forward!' on they go.

See where yon simple fences meet, A field with autumn's blessing crown'd; See, prostrate at the Wildgrave's feet, A husbandman, with toil embrown'd.

'O mercy, mercy, noble lord! Spare the poor's pittance,' was his cry, 'Earn'd by the sweat these brows have pour'd, In scorching hour of fierce July.'

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey; The impetuous Earl no warning heeds, But furious holds the onward way.

'Away, thou hound! so basely born! Or dread the scourge's echoing blow!' Then loudly rang his bugle horn, 'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!'

So said, so done; a single bound Clears the poor labourer's humble pale; While follows man, and horse, and hound, Like dark December's stormy gale.

And man, and horse, and hound, and horn, Destructive sweep the field along; While, joying o'er the wasted corn, Fell Famine marks the maddening throng.

Again uproused, the timorous prey Scours moss and moor, and holt and hill; Hard run, he feels his strength decay, And trusts for life his simple skill.

Too dangerous solitude appear'd; He seeks the shelter of the crowd; Amid the flock's domestic herd His harmless head he hopes to shroud.

O'er moss and moor, and holt and hill, His track the steady bloodhounds trace; O'er moss and moor, unwearied still, The furious Earl pursues the chase.

Full lowly did the herdsman fall; 'O spare, thou noble Baron, spare These herds, a widow's little all; These flocks, an orphan's fleecy care!'

Earnest the right-hand stranger pleads, The left still cheering to the prey; The Earl nor prayer nor pity heeds, But furious keeps the onward way.

'Unmanner'd dog! To stop my sport Vain were thy cant and beggar whine, Though human spirits of thy sort Were tenants of these carrion kine!'

Again he winds his bugle horn, 'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' And through the herd in ruthless scorn He cheers his furious hounds to go.

In heaps the throttled victims fall; Down sinks their mangled herdsman near; The murderous cries the stag appal,— Again he starts new-nerved by fear.

With blood besmear'd, and white with foam, While big the tears of anguish pour, He seeks amid the forest's gloom The humble hermit's hallow'd bower.

But man, and horse, and horn, and hound, Fast rattling on his traces go; The sacred chapel rung around With 'Hark away! and holla, ho!'

All mild amid the rout profane, The holy hermit pour'd his prayer; 'Forbear with blood God's house to stain; Revere His altar, and forbear!

'The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which, wrong'd by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head;— Be warn'd at length, and turn aside.'

Still the Fair Horseman anxious pleads; The Black, wild whooping, points the prey: Alas! the Earl no warning heeds, But frantic keeps the forward way.

'Holy or not, or right or wrong, Thy altar and its rights I spurn; Not sainted martyrs' sainted song, Not God Himself shall make me turn!'

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, 'Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!' But off on whirlwind's pinions borne, The stag, the hut, the hermit go.

And horse, and man, and horn, and hound, And clamour of the chase was gone; For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound, A deadly silence reign'd alone.

Wild gazed the affrighted Earl around; He strove in vain to wake his horn; In vain to call; for not a sound Could from his anxious lips be borne.

He listens for his trusty hounds; No distant baying reach'd his ears; His courser, rooted to the ground, The quickening spur unmindful bears.

Still dark and darker frown the shades, Dark, as the darkness of the grave; And not a sound the still invades, Save what a distant torrent gave.

High o'er the sinner's humbled head At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red, The awful voice of thunder spoke,

'Oppressor of creation fair! Apostate spirits' harden'd tool! Scorner of God, scourge of the poor! The measure of thy cup is full.

'Be chas'd forever through the wood: Forever roam the affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud, God's meanest creature is His child.'

Twas hush'd: one flash of sombre glare With yellow tinged the forest's brown; Up rose the Wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill; A rising wind began to sing; A louder, louder, louder still, Brought storm and tempest on its wing.

Earth heard the call; her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose, Well may I guess, but dare not tell; His eye like midnight lightning glows, His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The Wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn, With many a shriek of helpless woe; Behind him hound, and horse, and horn; And 'Hark away, and holla, ho!'

Sir W. Scott



CII

TO DAFFODILS

Fair daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early rising sun Has not attain'd his noon: Stay, stay, Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And having prayed together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you; We have as short a spring: As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing: We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew, Ne'er to be found again.

R. Herrick



CIII

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

The stately homes of England! How beautiful they stand, Amidst their tall ancestral trees, O'er all the pleasant land! The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam; And the swan glides by them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England! Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light! The blessed homes of England! How softly on their bowers Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from sabbath hours!

The cottage homes of England! By thousands on her plains They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes. Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves; And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free, fair homes of England! Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be rear'd To guard each hallow'd wall! And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its God!

F. Hemans



CIV

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN

Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes Seem a heart overcharged to express? She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs; She never complains, but her silence implies The composure of settled distress.

No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek; Nor for raiment nor food doth she care: Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleak On that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheek Hath the hue of a mortal despair.

Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day, Poor Mary the Maniac hath been; The traveller remembers who journey'd this way No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay, As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delight As she welcom'd them in with a smile; Her heart was a stranger to childish affright, And Mary would walk by the Abbey at night When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.

She loved, and young Richard had settled the day, And she hoped to be happy for life; But Richard was idle and worthless, and they Who knew him would pity poor Mary and say That she was too good for his wife.

Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night, And fast were the windows and door; Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright, And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight, They listen'd to hear the wind roar.

''Tis pleasant,' cried one, 'seated by the fireside To hear the wind whistle without.' 'What a night for the Abbey!' his comrade replied, 'Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.

'I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear The hoarse ivy shake over my head; And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear, Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear, For this wind might awaken the dead!'

'I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried, 'That Mary would venture there now.' 'Then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied, 'I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side, And faint if she saw a white cow.'

'Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?' His companion exclaimed with a smile; 'I shall win—for I know she will venture there now And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough From the elder that grows in the aisle.'

With fearless good-humour did Mary comply, And her way to the Abbey she bent; The night was dark, and the wind was high, And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky, She shiver'd with cold as she went.

O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid, Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight; Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid, Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade Seem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.

All around her was silent save when the rude blast Howl'd dismally round the old pile; Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly passed, And arrived at the innermost ruin at last, Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.

Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near, And hastily gather'd the bough; When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear, She paus'd, and she listen'd intently, in fear, And her heart panted painfully now.

The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head, She listen'd, nought else could she hear; The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread, For she heard in the ruins distinctly the tread Of footsteps approaching her near.

Behind a wide column half breathless with fear She crept to conceal herself there: That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear, And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear, And between them a corpse they did bear.

Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold; Again the rough wind hurried by— It blew off the hat of the one, and behold, Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,— She felt, and expected to die.

'Curse the hat!' he exclaims. 'Nay, come on till we hide The dead body,' his comrade replies. She beholds them in safety pass on by her side, She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied, And fast through the Abbey she flies.

She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door, She gazed in her terror around, Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more, And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor, Unable to utter a sound.

Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart, For a moment the hat met her view; Her eyes from that object convulsively start, For—what a cold horror then thrill'd through her heart When the name of her Richard she knew!

Where the old Abbey stands, on the Common hard by, His gibbet is now to be seen; His irons you still from the road may espy; The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sigh Of poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.

R. Southey



CV

THE WITCHES' MEETING

1st Witch. When shall we three meet again In thunder, lightning, or in rain?

2d Witch. When the hurly-burley's done, When the battle's lost or won:

3d Witch. That will be ere set of sun.

1st Witch. Where the place?

2d Witch. Upon the heath;

3d Witch. There to meet with Macbeth.

1st Witch. I come Grimalkin!

All. Paddock calls:—anon— Fair is foul, and foul is fair; Hover through the fog and filthy air.

THE CHARM

1st Witch. Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.

2d Witch. Thrice: and once the hedgehog whined.

3d Witch. Harpier cries:—'Tis time, 'tis time:

1st Witch. Round about the caldron go: In the poison'd entrails throw. Toad, that under the cold stone, Days and nights hast thirty-one Swelter'd venom sleeping got, Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!

All. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.

2d Witch. Fillet of a fenny snake, In the caldron boil and bake; Eye of newt, and toe of frog, Wool of bat, and tongue of dog, Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting, Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing, For a charm of powerful trouble; Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

All. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.

3d Witch. Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf; Witches' mummy; maw and gulf Of the ravin'd salt sea shark; Root of hemlock, digged i' the dark; Liver of blaspheming Jew; Gall of goat, and slips of yew Sliver'd in the moon's eclipse; Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips; Add thereto a tiger's chaudron, For the ingredients of our caldron.

All. Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.

2d Witch. Cool it with a baboon's blood, Then the charm is firm and good.

W. Shakespeare



CVI

ADELGITHA

The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded, And sad pale Adelgitha came, When forth a valiant champion bounded, And slew the slanderer of her fame.

She wept, deliver'd from her danger; But when he knelt to claim her glove— 'Seek not,' she cried, 'oh! gallant stranger, For hapless Adelgitha's love.

'For he is in a foreign far land Whose arms should now have set me free; And I must wear the willow garland For him that's dead or false to me.'

'Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!' He raised his vizor—at the sight She fell into his arms and fainted; It was indeed her own true knight!

T. Campbell



CVII

THE COUNCIL OF HORSES

Upon a time a neighing steed, Who graz'd among a numerous breed, With mutiny had fired the train, And spread dissension through the plain On matters that concern'd the state, The council met in grand debate. A colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire, Elate with strength and youthful fire, In haste stept forth before the rest, And thus the listening throng address'd. 'Goodness, how abject is our race, Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace! Shall we our servitude retain, Because our sires have borne the chain? Consider, friends! your strength and might; 'Tis conquest to assert your right. How cumbrous is the gilded coach! The pride of man is our reproach. Were we design'd for daily toil, To drag the ploughshare through the soil, To sweat in harness through the road, To groan beneath the carrier's load? How feeble are the two-legg'd kind! What force is in our nerves combin'd! Shall then our nobler jaws submit To foam and champ the galling bit? Shall haughty man my back bestride? Shall the sharp spur provoke my side? Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein; Your shame, your infamy, disdain. Let him the lion first control, And still the tiger's famish'd growl. Let us, like them, our freedom claim, And make him tremble at our name.' A general nod approv'd the cause, And all the circle neigh'd applause. When, lo! with grave and solemn pace, A steed advanc'd before the race, With age and long experience wise; Around he cast his thoughtful eyes, And, to the murmurs of the train, Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain. 'When I had health and strength like you The toils of servitude I knew; Now grateful man rewards my pains, And gives me all these wide domains. At will I crop the year's increase; My latter life is rest and peace. I grant, to man we lend our pains, And aid him to correct the plains; But doth not he divide the care, Through all the labours of the year? How many thousand structures rise, To fence us from inclement skies! For us he bears the sultry day, And stores up all our winter's hay. He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain; We share the toil and share the grain. Since every creature was decreed To aid each other's mutual need, Appease your discontented mind, And act the part by heaven assign'd.' The tumult ceas'd, the colt submitted, And, like his ancestors, was bitted.

J. Gay



CVIII

ST. ROMUALD

One day, it matters not to know How many hundred years ago, A Frenchman stopt at an inn door: The Landlord came to welcome him and chat Of this and that, For he had seen the traveller there before. 'Doth holy Romuald dwell Still in his cell?' The Traveller ask'd, 'or is the old man dead?' 'No; he has left his loving flock, and we So great a Christian never more shall see,' The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head. 'Ah, sir, we knew his worth! If ever there did live a saint on earth! Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirt For thirty days, all seasons, day and night. Good man, he knew it was not right For Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt! And then he only hung it out in the rain, And put it on again.

'There has been perilous work With him and the Devil there in yonder cell; For Satan used to maul him like a Turk. There they would sometimes fight, All through a winter's night, From sunset until morn. He with a cross, the Devil with his horn; The Devil spitting fire with might and main, Enough to make St. Michael half afraid: He splashing holy water till he made His red hide hiss again, And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell. This was so common that his face became All black and yellow with the brimstone flame, And then he smelt.... O dear, how he did smell!

'Then, sir, to see how he would mortify The flesh! If any one had dainty fare, Good man, he would come there, And look at all the delicate things, and cry, 'O belly, belly, You would be gormandizing now, I know; But it shall not be so! Home to your bread and water, home, I tell ye!'

'But,' quoth the Traveller, 'wherefore did he leave A flock that knew his saintly worth so well?' 'Why,' said the Landlord, 'Sir, it so befell He heard unluckily of our intent To do him a great honour; and you know He was not covetous of fame below, And so by stealth one night away he went.'

'What might this honour be?' the Traveller cried. 'Why, sir,' the host replied, 'We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us; And then should strangers have The good man's grave. A loss like that would naturally grieve us, For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure. Therefore we thought it prudent to secure His relics while we might; And so we meant to strangle him one night.'

R. Southey



CIX

LADY ALICE

Lady Alice was sitting in her bower window At midnight mending her quoif; And there she saw as fine a corpse As ever she saw in her life.

'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall? What bear ye on your shoulders?' 'We bear the corpse of Giles Collins, An old and true lover of yours.'

'Oh, lay him down gently, ye six men tall, All on the grass so green, And to-morrow when the sun goes down, Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.

'And bury me in Saint Mary's church, All for my love so true; And make me a garland of marjoram, And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'

Giles Collins was buried all in the east, Lady Alice all in the west; And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave, They reached Lady Alice's breast.

The priest of the parish he chanced to pass, And he severed those roses in twain. Sure never were seen such true lovers before, Nor e'er will there be again.

Old Ballad



CX

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT

An outlandish knight came from the North lands, And he came a wooing to me; And he told me he'd take me unto the North lands, And there he would marry me.

'Come, fetch me some of your father's gold, And some of your mother's fee; And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stand thirty and three.'

She fetched him some of her father's gold And some of her mother's fee; And two of the best nags out of the stable, Where they stood thirty and three.

She mounted her on her milk-white steed, He on the dapple grey; They rode till they came unto the sea-side, Three hours before it was day.

'Light off, light off thy milk-white steed, And deliver it unto me; Six pretty maids have I drowned here, And thou the seventh shall be.

'Pull off, pull off thy silken gown, And deliver it unto me, Methinks it looks too rich and too gay To rot in the salt sea.

'Pull off, pull off thy silken stays, And deliver them unto me! Methinks they are too fine and gay To rot in the salt sea.'

'Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock, And deliver it unto me; Methinks it looks too rich and gay To rot in the salt sea.'

'If I must pull off my Holland smock, Pray turn thy back unto me, For it is not fitting that such a ruffian A woman unclad should see.'

He turned his back towards her, And viewed the leaves so green; She catch'd him round the middle so small, And tumbled him into the stream.

He dropped high, and he dropped low, Until he came to the tide,— 'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden, And I will make you my bride.'

'Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man, Lie there instead of me; Six pretty maidens have you drowned here, And the seventh has drowned thee.'

She mounted on her milk-white steed, And led the dapple grey. She rode till she came to her father's hall, Three hours before it was day.

Old Ballad



CXI

SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king; Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and the may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet, Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit, In every street these tunes our ears do greet, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo. Spring, the sweet Spring.

T. Nash



CXII

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous groan, And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip, Or is't my brother John? Or is't my true love Willy, From Scotland new come home?'

''Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love Willy, From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till that thou come within my bower And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lips Thy days would not be lang.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my spirit, Margaret, That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best: 'Have there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest.'

Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee; And all the live-long winter night The dead corpse followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, Willy, Or any room at your feet? Or any room at your side, Willy, Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red red cock, And up then crew the grey; ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.'

Old Ballad



CXIII

THE FOUNTAIN

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day!

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain! Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward like thee!

J. R. Lowell



CXIV

FAIR ROSAMUND

When as King Henry ruled this land The second of that name, Above all else, he dearly loved A fair and comely dame.

Her crisped locks like threads of gold Appear'd to each man's sight; Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls Did cast a heavenly light.

The blood within her crystal cheeks Did such a colour drive, As though the lily and the rose For mastership did strive.

Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund, Her name was called so, To whom our queen, queen Ellinor Was known a deadly foe.

The king therefore, for her defence Against the furious queen, At Woodstock builded such a bower, The like was never seen.

Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong.

And they so cunningly contrived, With turnings round about, That none, but with a clue of thread, Could enter in and out.

And for his love and lady's sake. That was so fair and bright, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knight.

But fortune, that doth often frown Where she before did smile, The king's delight and lady's joy Full soon she did beguile:

For why? the king's ungracious son, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised wars, Within the realm of France.

But yet before our comely king The English land forsook, Of Rosamund, his lady fair, His farewell thus he took:

'My Rosamund, my only rose, That pleaseth best mine eye: The fairest flower in all the world To feed my fantasy;

'The flower of mine affected heart, Whose sweetness doth excel All roses else a thousand times, I bid thee now farewell.'

When Rosamund, that lady bright, Did hear the king say so, The sorrow of her grieved heart Her outward looks did show;

And from her clear and crystal eyes The tears gush'd out apace, Which like the silver pearled dew Ran down her comely face.

'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose? The king did often say. 'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody wars My lord must part away.

'But since your Grace on foreign coasts, Among your foes unkind, Must go to hazard life and limb, Why should I stay behind?

'Nay, rather let me, like a page, Your sword and target bear, That on my breast the blows may light, Which would offend you there.

'So I your presence may enjoy No toil I will refuse; But wanting you, my life is death; Nay, death I'd rather choose!'

'Content thyself, my dearest love, Thy rest at home shall be In England's sweet and pleasant isle; For travel fits not thee.

My Rose shall safely here abide, With music pass the day; Whilst I, among the piercing pikes, My foes seek far away.

And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trust To be my love's defence; Be careful of my gallant Rose When I am parted hence.'

And therewithal he fetch'd a sigh As though his heart would break: And Rosamund, for very grief, Not one plain word could speak.

And at their parting well they might In heart be grieved sore: After that day fair Rosamund The king did see no more.

For when his Grace had past the seas, And into France was gone, With envious heart queen Ellinor To Woodstock came anone.

And forth she calls this trusty knight In an unhappy hour; Who with his clue of twined thread Came from this famous bower.

And when that they had wounded him The queen this thread did get, And went, where lady Rosamund Was like an angel set.

But when the queen with steadfast eye Beheld her beauteous face, She was amazed in her mind At her exceeding grace.

'Cast off from thee those robes,' she said, 'That rich and costly be; And drink thou up this deadly draught, Which I have brought to thee.'

Then presently upon her knees Sweet Rosamund did fell; And pardon of the queen she craved For her offences all.

'Take pity on my youthful years,' Fair Rosamund did cry; 'And let me not with poison strong Enforced be to die.'

And with these words, her lily hands She wrung full often there; And down along her lovely face Did trickle many a tear.

But nothing could this furious queen Therewith appeased be; The cup of deadly poison strong, As she knelt on her knee,

She gave this comely dame to drink, Who took it in her hand, And from her bended knee arose, And on her feet did stand;

And casting up her eyes to heaven She did for mercy call; And drinking up the poison strong, Her life she lost withal.

And when that death through every limb Had showed its greatest spite, Her chiefest foes did plain confess She was a glorious wight.

Her body then they did entomb, When life was fled away, At Godstowe, near to Oxford town, As may be seen this day.

T. Delone



CXV

THE HITCHEN MAY-DAY SONG

Remember us poor Mayers all! And thus we do begin To lead our lives in righteousness, Or else we die in sin.

We have been rambling all the night, And almost all the day; And now returned back again, We have brought you a branch of May.

A branch of May we have brought you, And at your door it stands; It is but a sprout, but it's well budded out By the work of our Lord's hands.

The hedges and trees they are so green, As green as any leek; Our heavenly Father He water'd them With His heavenly dew so sweet.

The heavenly gates are open wide, Our paths are beaten plain; And if a man be not too far gone, He may return again.

The life of man is but a span, It flourishes like a flower; We are here to-day and gone to-morrow, And we are dead in an hour.

The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light, A little before it is day: So God bless you all, both great and small, And send you a joyful May!

Old Song



CXVI

THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

Will you hear a Spanish lady How she woo'd an English man? Garments gay and rich as may be, Decked with jewels, had she on; Of a comely countenance and grace was she, And by birth and parentage of high degree.

As his prisoner there he kept her, In his hands her life did lie; Cupid's bands did tie her faster, By the liking of an eye; In his courteous company was all her joy, To favour him in any thing she was not coy.

At the last there came commandment For to set the ladies free, With their jewels still adorned, None to do them injury: 'Alas!' then said this lady gay, 'full woe is me; O let me still sustain this kind captivity!

'O gallant captain, show some pity To a lady in-distress; Leave me not within the city, For to die in heaviness; Thou hast set this present day my body free, But my heart in prison strong remains with thee.'

'How should'st thou, fair lady, love me, Whom thou know'st thy country's foe? Thy fair words make me suspect thee; Serpents are where flowers grow.' 'All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight, God grant unto myself the same may fully light:

'Blessed be the time and season That you came on Spanish ground; If you may our foes be termed, Gentle foes we have you found. With our city you have won our hearts each one; Then to your country bear away that is your own.'

'Rest you still, most gallant lady, Rest you still, and weep no more; Of fair lovers there are plenty; Spain doth yield a wondrous store.' 'Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find, But English men throughout the world are counted kind.

'Leave me not unto a Spaniard; You alone enjoy my heart; I am lovely, young, and tender, And so love is my desert. Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd; The wife of every English man is counted blest.'

'It would be a shame, fair lady, For to bear a woman hence; English soldiers never carry Any such without offence.' 'I will quickly change myself if it be so, And like a page I'll follow thee where'er thou go.'

'I have neither gold nor silver To maintain thee in this case, And to travel, 'tis great charges, As you know, in every place.' 'My chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own, And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.'

'On the seas are many dangers; Many storms do there arise, Which will be to ladies dreadful, And force tears from watery eyes.' 'Well in truth I shall endure extremity, For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.'

'Courteous lady, be contented; Here comes all that breeds the strife; I in England have already A sweet woman to my wife: I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain, Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.'

'Oh how happy is that woman, That enjoys so true a friend! Many days of joy God send you! Of my suit I'll make an end: On my knees I pardon crave for this offence, Which did from love and true affection first commence.

'Commend me to thy loving lady; Bear to her this chain of gold, And these bracelets for a token; Grieving that I was so bold. All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee, For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.'

'I will spend my days in prayer, Love and all her laws defy, In a nunnery will I shroud me, Far from any company: But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this, To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.

'Thus farewell, most gentle captain, And farewell my heart's content! Count not Spanish ladies wayward, Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!' 'The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.'

Old Ballad



CXVII

LITTLE WHITE LILY

Little white Lily Sat by a stone, Drooping and waiting Till the sun shone. Little white Lily Sunshine has fed; Little white Lily Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily Said, 'It is good; Little white Lily's Clothing and food.' Little white Lily, Drest like a bride! Shining with whiteness, And crown'd beside!

Little white Lily Droopeth with pain, Waiting and waiting For the wet rain. Little white Lily Holdeth her cup; Rain is fast falling And filling it up.

Little white Lily Said, 'Good again, When I am thirsty To have nice rain; Now I am stronger, Now I am cool; Heat cannot burn me, My veins are so full.'

Little white Lily Smells very sweet: On her head sunshine, Rain at her feet. 'Thanks to the sunshine, Thanks to the rain! Little white Lily Is happy again!

G. MacDonald



CXVIII

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

O sing unto my roundelay; O 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 can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout; O, 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 brier'd dell below; Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing To the night-mares 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.

T. Chatterton



CXIX

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort, Give ear unto my song; And if you find it wondrous short, It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man, Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had, To comfort friends and foes; The naked every day he clad, When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends; But when a pique began, The dog, to gain his private ends, Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets The wondering neighbours ran, And swore the dog had lost his wits, To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad To every christian eye: And while they swore the dog was mad, They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light, That show'd the rogues they lied, The man recover'd of the bite, The dog it was that died.

O. Goldsmith



CXX

NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance, Some time ago, to peep at France; To talk of sciences and arts, And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts. Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak, And answer'd John in heathen Greek: To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw, 'Twas, 'Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.'

John, to the Palais-Royal come, Its splendour almost struck him dumb. 'I say, whose house is that there here?' 'House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' 'What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John; 'This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.'

John saw Versailles from Marli's height, And cried, astonish'd at the sight, 'Whose fine estate is that there here?' 'State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' 'His? what, the land and houses too? The fellow's richer than a Jew: On everything he lays his claw! I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw.'

Next tripping came a courtly fair, John cried, enchanted with her air, 'What lovely wench is that there here?' 'Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' 'What, he again? Upon my life! A palace, lands, and then a wife Sir Joshua might delight to draw: I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.

'But hold! whose funeral's that?' cries John. 'Je vous n'entends pas.'—'What, is he gone? Wealth, fame, and beauty could not save Poor Nongtongpaw then from the grave! His race is run, his game is up,— I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup; But since he chooses to withdraw, Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!'

C. Dibdin



CXXI

POOR DOG TRAY

On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part, She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away: And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure, And he constantly loved me although I was poor; When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away, I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold, And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey, And he lick'd me for kindness—my old dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case, Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? To my sweet native village, so far, far away, I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.

T. Campbell



CXXII

THE FAITHFUL BIRD

The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs, displaced from that retreat, Enjoy'd the open air; Two goldfinches whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long, Lived happy prisoners there.

They sang as blithe as finches sing That flutter loose on golden wing, And frolic where they list; Strangers to liberty, 'tis true, But that delight they never knew, And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast, With force not easily suppress'd; And Dick felt some desires, That, after many an effort vain, Instructed him at length to gain A pass between the wires.

The open windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight; But Tom was still confin'd; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and sincere To leave his friend behind.

So, settling on his cage, by play, And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say, You must not live alone— Nor would he quit that chosen stand, Till I, with slow and cautious hand, Return'd him to his own.

W. Cowper



CXXIII

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A chieftain to the Highlands bound Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.'

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

'His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready; It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

'And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry: So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of Heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'

The boat has left the stormy land, A stormy sea before her,— When, oh! too strong for human hand The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore; His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, And one was round her lover.

'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter! oh, my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

T. Campbell



CXXIV

THE SEA

To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er, The wanton water leaps in sport, And rattles down the pebbly shore, The dolphin wheels, the sea cows snort, And unseen mermaid's pearly song Comes bubbling up, the weeds among. Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar: To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea! to sea! our white winged bark Shall billowing cleave its watery way, And with its shadow, fleet and dark, Break the caved Tritons' azure day, Like mountain eagle soaring light O'er antelopes on Alpine height. The anchor heaves! The ship swings free! Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea!

T. L. Beddoes



CXXV

FIDELITY

A barking sound the shepherd hears, A cry as of a dog or fox; He halts, and searches with his eye Among the scattered rocks: And now at distance can discern A stirring in a brake of fern; And instantly a dog is seen, Glancing through that covert green.

The dog is not of mountain breed; Its motions, too, are wild and shy; With something, as the shepherd thinks, Unusual in its cry: Nor is there any one in sight All round, in hollow or on height; Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear: What is the creature doing here?

It was a cove, a huge recess, That keeps, till June, December's snow; A lofty precipice in front, A silent tarn below; Far in the bosom of Helvellyn, Remote from public road or dwelling, Pathway, or cultivated land; From trace of human foot or hand.

There sometimes doth a leaping fish Send through the tarn a lonely cheer; The crags repeat the raven's croak, In symphony austere; Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud— And mists that spread the flying shroud, And sunbeams; and the sounding blast, That if it could would hurry past; But that enormous barrier holds it fast.

Not free from boding thoughts, awhile The shepherd stood; then makes his way O'er rocks and stones, following the dog As quickly as he may; Nor far had gone before he found A human skeleton on the ground: The appalled discoverer with a sigh Looks round to learn the history.

From those abrupt and perilous rocks The man had fallen, that place of fear! At length upon the shepherd's mind It breaks, and all is clear: He instantly recalled the name, And who he was, and whence he came; Remembered too the very day On which the traveller passed that way.

But hear a wonder for whose sake This lamentable tale I tell! A lasting monument of words This wonder merits well. The dog, which still was hovering nigh, Repeating the same timid cry, This dog had been through three months' space A dweller in that savage place.

Yes, proof was plain that since the day When this ill-fated traveller died, The dog had watch'd about the spot, Or by his master's side: How nourished there through that long time, He knows who gave that love sublime; And gave that strength of feeling great, Above all human estimate.

W. Wordsworth



CXXVI

THE FOX AND THE CAT

The fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way: ''Tis great,' says the Fox, 'to make justice our guide!' 'How god-like is mercy!' Grimalkin replied. Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood, Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep— And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. 'In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand,' says the wolf, 'I must eat.' Grimalkin's astonish'd!—the fox stood aghast, To see the fell beast at his bloody repast. 'What a wretch,' says the cat, ''tis the vilest of brutes; Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots?' Cries the fox, 'While our oaks give us acorns so good, What a tyrant is this to spill innocent blood!' Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still, Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill. Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes, And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize. A mouse, too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray, The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey. A spider that sat in her web on the wall, Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pitied their fall; She cried, 'Of such murders, how guiltless am I!' So ran to regale on a new-taken fly.

J. Cunningham



CXXVII

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY

The noon was shady, and soft airs Swept Ouse's silent tide, When, 'scaped from literary cares, I wander'd on his side.

My spaniel, prettiest of his race, And high in pedigree,— (Two nymphs adorn'd with every grace That spaniel found for me,)

Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds, Now starting into sight, Pursued the swallow o'er the meads With scarce a slower flight.

It was the time when Ouse display'd His lilies newly blown; Their beauties I intent survey'd, And one I wish'd my own.

With cane extended far I sought To steer it close to land; But still the prize, though nearly caught, Escaped my eager hand.

Beau mark'd my unsuccessful pains With fix'd considerate face, And puzzling set his puppy brains To comprehend the case.

But, with a chirrup clear and strong, Dispersing all his dream, I thence withdrew, and follow'd long The windings of the stream.

My ramble ended, I return'd; Beau trotted far before, The floating wreath again discern'd, And plunging, left the shore.

I saw him with that lily cropp'd, Impatient swim to meet My quick approach, and soon he dropp'd The treasure at my feet.

Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried, 'Shall hear of this thy deed; My dog shall mortify the pride Of man's superior breed;

'But chief myself I will enjoin, Awake at duty's call, To show a love as prompt as thine To Him who gives me all.'

W. Cowper



CXXVIII

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST

Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said, When piping winds are hush'd around, A small note wakes from underground, Where now his tiny bones are laid. No more in lone or leafless groves, With ruffled wing and faded breast, His friendless, homeless spirit roves; Gone to the world where birds are blest! Where never cat glides o'er the green, Or school-boy's giant form is seen; But love, and joy, and smiling Spring Inspire their little souls to sing!

S. Rogers



CXXIX

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

In ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells, And stroll about, but hide their quality, To try good people's hospitality. It happen'd on a winter night, As authors of the legend write, Two brother hermits, saints by trade, Taking their tour in masquerade, Disguis'd in tatter'd habits went To a small village down in Kent; Where, in the stroller's canting strain, They begg'd from door to door in vain, Tried every tone might pity win; But not a soul would take them in. Our wandering saints, in woful state, Treated at this ungodly rate, Having through all the village past, To a small cottage came at last Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman Call'd in the neighbourhood Philemon; Who kindly did these saints invite In his poor hut to pass the night; And then the hospitable sire Bid goody Baucis mend the fire; While he from out the chimney took A flitch of bacon off the hook, And freely from the fattest side Cut out large slices to be fried; Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink Fill'd a large jug up to the brink, And saw it fairly twice go round; Yet (what is wonderful!) they found 'Twas still replenish'd to the top, As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop. The good old couple were amaz'd, And often on each other gaz'd; For both were frightened to the heart, And just began to cry, 'What ar't!' Then softly turn'd aside to view Whether the lights were burning blue. 'Good folks, you need not be afraid, We are but saints,' the hermits said; 'No hurt shall come to you or yours: But for that pack of churlish boors, Not fit to live on Christian ground, They and their houses shall be drown'd; Whilst you shall see your cottage rise, And grow a church before your eyes.' They scarce had spoke when fair and soft The roof began to mount aloft, Aloft rose every beam and rafter, The heavy wall climb'd slowly after; The chimney widen'd and grew higher. Became a steeple with a spire. The kettle to the top was hoist, And there stood fasten'd to a joist; Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell, 'Tis now no kettle, but a bell. A wooden jack which had almost Lost by disuse the art to roast, A sudden alteration feels, Increas'd by new intestine wheels; The jack and chimney, near allied, Had never left each other's side: The chimney to a steeple grown, The jack would not be left alone; But up against the steeple rear'd, Became a clock, and still adhered. The groaning chair began to crawl, Like a huge snail, along the wall; There stuck aloft in public view, And with small change a pulpit grew. The cottage, by such feats as these, Grown to a church by just degrees, The hermits then desired the host To ask for what he fancied most. Philemon, having paus'd awhile, Return'd them thanks in homely style: 'I'm old, and fain would live at ease; Make me the parson, if you please.' Thus happy in their change of life Were several years this man and wife. When on a day, which prov'd their last, Discoursing on old stories past, They went by chance, amidst their talk, To the churchyard to take a walk; When Baucis hastily cried out, 'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!' 'Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell us? I hope you don't believe me jealous! But yet, methinks, I feel it true; And really yours is budding too— Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot; It feels as if 'twere taking root.' Description would but tire my muse; In short, they both were turn'd to yews.

J. Swift



CXXX

LULLABY FOR TITANIA

First Fairy

You spotted snakes with double tongue, Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen; Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong; Come not near our fairy queen.

Chorus

Philomel with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh! So good-night, with lullaby.

Second Fairy

Weaving spiders, come not here; Hence, you long-legg'd spinners, hence; Beetles black, approach not near; Worm, nor snail, do no offence.

Chorus

Philomel with melody Sing in our sweet lullaby; Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby! Never harm, nor spell, nor charm, Come our lovely lady nigh! So good-night, with lullaby.

W. Shakespeare



CXXXI

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLINOR

Lord Thomas he was a bold forester, And a chaser of the king's deer; Fair Ellinor was a fine woman, And Lord Thomas he loved her dear.

'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' he said, 'And riddle us both as one; Whether I shall marry with fair Ellinor, And let the brown girl alone?'

'The brown girl she has got houses and land, And fair Ellinor she has got none; Therefore I charge you on my blessing, Bring me the brown girl home.'

As it befell on a high holiday, As many more did beside, Lord Thomas he went to fair Ellinor, That should have been his bride.

But when he came to fair Ellinor's bower, He knocked there at the ring; But who was so ready as fair Ellinor For to let Lord Thomas in.

'What news, what news, Lord Thomas?' she said, 'What news hast thou brought unto me?' 'I am come to bid thee to my wedding, And that is bad news for thee.'

'O, God forbid, Lord Thomas,' she said, 'That such a thing should be done. I thought to have been thy bride my own self, And you to have been the bridegroom.'

'Come riddle my riddle, dear mother,' she said, 'And riddle it all in one; Whether I shall go to Lord Thomas's wedding, Or whether I shall tarry at home?'

'There are many that are your friends, daughter, And many that are your foe; Therefore I charge you on my blessing, To Lord Thomas's wedding don't go.'

'There's many that are my friends, mother And if a thousand more were my foe, Betide my life, betide my death, To Lord Thomas's wedding I'll go.'

She clothed herself in gallant attire, And her merry men all in green; And as they rid through every town, They took her to be some queen.

But when she came to Lord Thomas's gate, She knocked there at the ring; But who was so ready as Lord Thomas, To let fair Ellinor in.

'Is this your bride?' fair Ellinor said; 'Methinks she looks wonderful brown; Thou might'st have had as fair a woman, As ever trod on the ground.'

'Despise her not, fair Ellin,' he said, 'Despise her not unto me; For better I love thy little finger, Than all her whole body.'

This brown bride had a little penknife, That was both long and sharp, And betwixt the short ribs and the long, Prick'd fair Ellinor to the heart.

'Now Heaven save thee,' Lord Thomas he said, 'Methinks thou look'st wondrous wan: Thou used to look with as fresh a colour, As ever the sun shined on.'

'O, art thou blind, Lord Thomas?' she said, 'Or canst thou not very well see? O, dost thou not see my own heart's blood Run trickling down my knee?'

Lord Thomas he had a sword by his side; As he walked about the hall, He cut off his bride's head from her shoulders, And threw it against the wall.

He set the hilt against the ground, And the point against his heart; There never were three lovers met, That sooner did depart.

Old Ballad



CXXXII

QUEEN MAB

O then, I see, Queen Mab hath been with you. She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes In shape no bigger than an agate stone On the fore-finger of an alderman; Drawn with a team of little atomies Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep: Her wagon spokes made of long spinner's legs: The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers; The traces, of the smallest spider's web; The collars of the moonshine's watery beams; Her whip of cricket's bone, the lash, of film; Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat, Not half so big as a round little worm, Pricked from the lazy finger of a maid: Her chariot is an empty hazel nut, Made by the joiner squirrel, or old grub, Time out of mind the fairies' coachmakers. And in this state she gallops night by night, Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love; On courtiers' knees that dream on court'sies straight; O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees; O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream.

W. Shakespeare



CXXXIII

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West! Through all the wide Border his steed is the best; And save his good broadsword he weapon had none; He rode all unarm'd and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar!

He stay'd not for brake and he stopt 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 bravely he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all, Then spake 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 woo'd 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 kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up, He quaff'd off the wine and he threw down the cup; She look'd down to blush, and she look'd 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 match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar!'

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reach'd 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!' cried 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 lea; 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!

Sir W. Scott



CXXXIV

INCIDENT

Characteristic of a Favourite Dog

On his morning rounds the master Goes to learn how all things fare; Searches pasture after pasture, Sheep and cattle eyes with care; And for silence, or for talk, He hath comrades in his walk; Four dogs each of a different breed, Distinguished, two for scent, and two for speed.

See a hare before him started! —Off they fly in earnest chase; Every dog is eager-hearted, All the four are in the race! And the hare whom they pursue Knows from instinct what to do; Her hope is near, no turn she makes; But like an arrow to the river takes.

Deep the river was and crusted Thinly by a one night's frost; But the nimble hare hath trusted To the ice, and safely crost; She hath crost, and without heed All are following at full speed, When lo! the ice so thinly spread, Breaks, and the greyhound Dart is overhead!

Better fate have Prince and Swallow— See them cleaving to the sport! Music has no heart to follow, Little Music, she stops short. She hath neither wish nor heart, Hers is now another part: A loving creature she, and brave! And fondly strives her struggling friend to save.

From the brink her paws she stretches, Very hands as you would say! And afflicting moans she fetches, As he breaks the ice away. For herself she hath no fears,— Him alone she sees and hears,— Makes efforts with complainings; nor gives o'er, Until her fellow sinks to re-appear no more.

W. Wordsworth



CXXXV

KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS

King Lear once ruled in this land With princely power and peace; And had all things with heart's content, That might his joys increase. Amongst those things that nature gave, Three daughters fair had he, So princely seeming, beautiful, As fairer could not be.

So on a time it pleased the king A question thus to move, Which of his daughters to his grace Could show the dearest love: 'For to my age you bring content,' Quoth he, 'then let me hear, Which of you three in plighted troth The kindest will appear.'

To whom the eldest thus began: 'Dear father mine,' quoth she, 'Before your face to do you good, My blood shall rendered be: And for your sake my bleeding heart Shall here be cut in twain, Ere that I see your reverend age The smallest grief sustain.'

'And so will I,' the second said, 'Dear father, for your sake, The worst of all extremities I'll gently undertake: And serve your highness night and day With diligence and love; That sweet content and quietness Discomforts may remove.'

'In doing so, you glad my soul,' The aged king replied; 'But what say'st thou, my youngest girl, How is thy love ally'd?' 'My love' quoth young Cordelia then 'Which to your grace I owe, Shall be the duty of a child, And that is all I'll show.'

'And wilt thou show no more,' quoth he, 'Than doth thy duty bind? I well perceive thy love is small, When as no more I find. Henceforth I banish thee my court, Thou art no child of mine; Nor any part of this my realm By favour shall be thine.

'Thy elder sisters' loves are more Than I can well demand, To whom I equally bestow My kingdom and my land, My pompal state and all my goods, That lovingly I may With those thy sisters be maintain'd Until my dying day.'

Thus flattering speeches won renown By these two sisters here; The third had causeless banishment, Yet was her love more dear: For poor Cordelia patiently Went wand'ring up and down, Unhelp'd, unpitied, gentle maid, Through many an English town.

Until at last in famous France She gentler fortunes found; Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd The fairest on the ground: Where, when the king her virtues heard, And this fair lady seen, With full consent of all his court, He made his wife and queen.

Her father, King Lear, this while With his two daughters stay'd: Forgetful of their promis'd loves, Full soon the same decay'd; And living in Queen Regan's court, The eldest of the twain, She took from him his chiefest means, And most of all his train.

For whereas twenty men were wont To wait with bended knee, She gave allowance but to ten, And after scarce to three; Nay, one she thought too much for him; So took she all away, In hope that in her court, good king, He would no longer stay.

'Am I rewarded thus,' quoth he, 'In giving all I have Unto my children, and to beg For what I lately gave? I'll go unto my Gonorell: My second child, I know, Will be more kind and pitiful, And will relieve my woe.'

Full fast he hies then to her court; Who, when she heard his moan, Return'd him answer, that she griev'd That all his means were gone; But no way could relieve his wants; Yet, if that he would stay Within her kitchen, he should have What scullions gave away.

When he had heard with bitter tears, He made his answer then; 'In what I did, let me be made Example to all men. I will return again,' quoth he, 'Unto my Regan's court; She will not use me thus, I hope, But in a kinder sort.'

Where when he came she gave command To drive him thence away: When he was well within her court (She said) he would not stay. Then back again to Gonorell The woful king did hie, That in her kitchen he might have What scullion boys set by.

But there of that he was denied, Which she had promised late; For once refusing, he should not Come after to her gate. Thus 'twixt his daughters for relief He wander'd up and down; Being glad to feed on beggar's food, That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then His youngest daughter's words, That said the duty of a child Was all that love affords; But doubting to repair to her Whom he had banish'd so, Grew frantic mad; for in his mind He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milkwhite locks And tresses from his head, And all with blood bestain his cheeks, With age and honour spread. To hills and woods and watery founts He made his hourly moan, Till hills and woods and senseless things Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents, He passed o'er to France, In hopes from fair Cordelia there To find some gentler chance; Most virtuous dame! which when she heard Of this her father's grief, As duty bound she quickly sent Him comfort and relief:

And by a train of noble peers, In brave and gallant sort, She gave in charge he should be brought To Aganippus' court; Whose royal king with noble mind So freely gave consent To muster up his knights at arms, To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed, To repossess King Lear And drive his daughters from their thrones By his Cordelia dear. Where she, true-hearted noble queen, Was in the battle slain; Yet he, good king, in his old days, Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death, Who died indeed for love Of her dear father, in whose cause She did this battle move, He swooning fell upon her breast, From whence he never parted: But on her bosom left his life, That was so truly hearted.

Old Ballad



CXXXVI

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL

As in the sunshine of the morn A butterfly (but newly born) Sat proudly perking on a rose, With pert conceit his bosom glows; His wings (all glorious to behold) Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold, Wide he displays; the spangled dew Reflects his eyes and various hue. His now forgotten friend, a snail, Beneath his house, with slimy trail, Crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies, In wrath he to the gardener cries: 'What means yon peasant's daily toil, From choking weeds to rid the soil? Why wake you to the morning's care? Why with new arts correct the year? Why grows the peach's crimson hue? And why the plum's inviting blue? Were they to feast his taste design'd, That vermin of voracious kind! Crush then the slow, the pilfering race, So purge thy garden from disgrace.' 'What arrogance!' the snail replied; 'How insolent is upstart pride! Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain Provok'd my patience to complain, I had conceal'd thy meaner birth, Nor trac'd thee to the scum of earth; For scarce nine suns have wak'd the hours, To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers, Since I thy humbler life survey'd, In base, in sordid guise array'd. I own my humble life, good friend; Snail was I born and snail shall end. And what's a butterfly? At best He's but a caterpillar drest; And all thy race (a numerous seed) Shall prove of caterpillar breed.'

J. Gay



CXXXVII

THE DAEMON LOVER

'O where have you been, my long, long, love, This long seven years and more?' 'O I'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before.'

'O hold your tongue of your former vows, For they will breed sad strife; O hold your tongue of your former vows, For I am become a wife.'

He turn'd him right and round about, And the tear blinded his ee; 'I would never have trodden on Irish ground, If it had not been for thee.

'I might have had a king's daughter, Far, far beyond the sea; I might have had a king's daughter, Had it not been for love of thee.'

'If ye might have had a king's daughter, Yourself you had to blame; Ye might have taken the king's daughter, For ye knew that I was nane.'

'O false are the vows of womankind, But fair is their false bodie; I never would have trodden on Irish ground Had it not been for love of thee.'

'If I was to leave my husband dear, And my two babes also, O what have you to take me to, If with you I should go?'

'I have seven ships upon the sea, The eighth brought me to land; With four and twenty bold mariners, And music on every hand.'

She has taken up her two little babes, Kiss'd them both cheek and chin; 'O fare ye well, my own two babes, For I'll never see you again.'

She set her foot upon the ship, No mariners could she behold; But the sails were of the taffetie, And the masts of the beaten gold.

She had not sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, When dismal grew his countenance, And drumlie grew his ee.

The masts that were like the beaten gold Bent not on the heaving seas; And the sails that were of the taffetie Fill'd not in the east land breeze.

They had not sail'd a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterly.

'O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he, 'Of your weeping now let me be; I will show you how the lilies grow On the banks of Italy.'

'O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, That the sun shines sweetly on?' 'O yon are the hills of heaven,' he said, 'Where you will never won.'