Chapter 10

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPERWhen my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bareYou know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."And so he was quiet, and that very night,As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.And by came an Angel who had a bright key,And he opened the coffins and set them all free;Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,And got with our bags and our brushes to work.Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bareYou know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."And so he was quiet, and that very night,As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.And by came an Angel who had a bright key,And he opened the coffins and set them all free;Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,And got with our bags and our brushes to work.Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.William Blake

When my mother died I was very young,And my father sold me while yet my tongueCould scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

When my mother died I was very young,

And my father sold me while yet my tongue

Could scarcely cry "'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"

So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bareYou know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved: so I said

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet, and that very night,As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And so he was quiet, and that very night,

As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,

Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,And he opened the coffins and set them all free;Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

And he opened the coffins and set them all free;

Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,

And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,

He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,And got with our bags and our brushes to work.Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.William Blake

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,

And got with our bags and our brushes to work.

Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;

So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

William Blake

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELLHie upon Hielands,and laigh upon Tay,Bonnie George Campbellrode out on a day.Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom[46]hame cam' the saddle,but never cam' he.Down cam' his auld mither,greetin'[47]fu' sair,And down cam' his bonny wife,wringin' her hair:—"My meadow lies green,and my corn is unshorn,My barn is to buildand my babe is unborn."Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom hame cam' the saddlebut never cam' he.

Hie upon Hielands,and laigh upon Tay,Bonnie George Campbellrode out on a day.Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom[46]hame cam' the saddle,but never cam' he.Down cam' his auld mither,greetin'[47]fu' sair,And down cam' his bonny wife,wringin' her hair:—"My meadow lies green,and my corn is unshorn,My barn is to buildand my babe is unborn."Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom hame cam' the saddlebut never cam' he.

Hie upon Hielands,and laigh upon Tay,Bonnie George Campbellrode out on a day.

Hie upon Hielands,

and laigh upon Tay,

Bonnie George Campbell

rode out on a day.

Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom[46]hame cam' the saddle,but never cam' he.

Saddled and briddled

and booted rade he;

Toom[46]hame cam' the saddle,

but never cam' he.

Down cam' his auld mither,greetin'[47]fu' sair,And down cam' his bonny wife,wringin' her hair:—

Down cam' his auld mither,

greetin'[47]fu' sair,

And down cam' his bonny wife,

wringin' her hair:—

"My meadow lies green,and my corn is unshorn,My barn is to buildand my babe is unborn."

"My meadow lies green,

and my corn is unshorn,

My barn is to build

and my babe is unborn."

Saddled and briddledand booted rade he;Toom hame cam' the saddlebut never cam' he.

Saddled and briddled

and booted rade he;

Toom hame cam' the saddle

but never cam' he.

THE ORPHAN'S SONGI had a little bird,I took it from the nest;I prest it, and blest it,And nurst it in my breast.I set it on the ground,I danced round and round,And sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I make a little feastOf food soft and sweet,I hold it in my breast,And coax it to eat;I pit, and I pat,I call it this and that,And sing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I may kiss, I may sing,But I can't make it feed,It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing.I scolded and I socked,But it minded not a whit,Its little mouth was locked,And I could not open it.Tho' with pit, and with pat,And with this, and with that,I sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"But when the day was done,And the room was at rest,And I sat all aloneWith my birdie in my breast,And the light had fled,And not a sound was heard,Then my little birdLifted up its head,And the little mouthLoosed its sullen pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.Swifter than I speakI brought it food once more,But the poor little beakWas locked as before.I sat down again,And not a creature stirred;I laid the little birdAgain where it had laid;And again when nothing stirred,And not a word I said,Then my little birdLifted up its head,And the little beakLoosed its stubborn pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.It lay in my breast,It uttered no cry,'Twas famished,'twas famished,And I couldn't tell why.I couldn't tell why,But I saw that it would die,For all that I kept dancing round and round,And singing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I never look sad,I hear what people say,I laugh when they are gayAnd they think I am glad.My tears never start,I never say a word,But I think that my heartIs like that little bird.Every day I read,And I sing, and I play,But thro' the long dayIt taketh no heed.It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing,I know it doth not read,I know it doth not sing.With my mouth I read,With my hands I play,My shut heart is shut,Coax it how you may.You may coax it how you mayWhile the day is broad and bright,But in the dead nightWhen the guests are gone away,And no more the music sweetUp the house doth pass,Nor the dancing feetShake the nursery glass;And I've heard my auntAlong the corridor,And my uncle gauntLock his chamber door;And upon the stairAll is hushed and still,And the last wheelIs silent in the square;And the nurses snore,And the dim sheets rise and fall,And the lamplight's on the wall,And the mouse is on the floor;And the curtains of my bedAre like a heavy cloud,And the clock ticks loud,And sounds are in my head;And little Lizzie sleepsSoftly at my side,It opens, it opens,With a yearning strong and wide!It yearns in my breast,It utters no cry,'Tis famished, 'tis famished,And I feel that I shall die,I feel that I shall die,And none will know why.Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,And singing about me so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"Sydney Dobell

I had a little bird,I took it from the nest;I prest it, and blest it,And nurst it in my breast.I set it on the ground,I danced round and round,And sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I make a little feastOf food soft and sweet,I hold it in my breast,And coax it to eat;I pit, and I pat,I call it this and that,And sing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I may kiss, I may sing,But I can't make it feed,It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing.I scolded and I socked,But it minded not a whit,Its little mouth was locked,And I could not open it.Tho' with pit, and with pat,And with this, and with that,I sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"But when the day was done,And the room was at rest,And I sat all aloneWith my birdie in my breast,And the light had fled,And not a sound was heard,Then my little birdLifted up its head,And the little mouthLoosed its sullen pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.Swifter than I speakI brought it food once more,But the poor little beakWas locked as before.I sat down again,And not a creature stirred;I laid the little birdAgain where it had laid;And again when nothing stirred,And not a word I said,Then my little birdLifted up its head,And the little beakLoosed its stubborn pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.It lay in my breast,It uttered no cry,'Twas famished,'twas famished,And I couldn't tell why.I couldn't tell why,But I saw that it would die,For all that I kept dancing round and round,And singing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"I never look sad,I hear what people say,I laugh when they are gayAnd they think I am glad.My tears never start,I never say a word,But I think that my heartIs like that little bird.Every day I read,And I sing, and I play,But thro' the long dayIt taketh no heed.It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing,I know it doth not read,I know it doth not sing.With my mouth I read,With my hands I play,My shut heart is shut,Coax it how you may.You may coax it how you mayWhile the day is broad and bright,But in the dead nightWhen the guests are gone away,And no more the music sweetUp the house doth pass,Nor the dancing feetShake the nursery glass;And I've heard my auntAlong the corridor,And my uncle gauntLock his chamber door;And upon the stairAll is hushed and still,And the last wheelIs silent in the square;And the nurses snore,And the dim sheets rise and fall,And the lamplight's on the wall,And the mouse is on the floor;And the curtains of my bedAre like a heavy cloud,And the clock ticks loud,And sounds are in my head;And little Lizzie sleepsSoftly at my side,It opens, it opens,With a yearning strong and wide!It yearns in my breast,It utters no cry,'Tis famished, 'tis famished,And I feel that I shall die,I feel that I shall die,And none will know why.Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,And singing about me so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"Sydney Dobell

I had a little bird,I took it from the nest;I prest it, and blest it,And nurst it in my breast.

I had a little bird,

I took it from the nest;

I prest it, and blest it,

And nurst it in my breast.

I set it on the ground,I danced round and round,And sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I set it on the ground,

I danced round and round,

And sang about it so cheerly,

With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,

And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I make a little feastOf food soft and sweet,I hold it in my breast,And coax it to eat;

I make a little feast

Of food soft and sweet,

I hold it in my breast,

And coax it to eat;

I pit, and I pat,I call it this and that,And sing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I pit, and I pat,

I call it this and that,

And sing about it so cheerly,

With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,

And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I may kiss, I may sing,But I can't make it feed,It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing.

I may kiss, I may sing,

But I can't make it feed,

It taketh no heed

Of any pleasant thing.

I scolded and I socked,But it minded not a whit,Its little mouth was locked,And I could not open it.

I scolded and I socked,

But it minded not a whit,

Its little mouth was locked,

And I could not open it.

Tho' with pit, and with pat,And with this, and with that,I sang about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"

Tho' with pit, and with pat,

And with this, and with that,

I sang about it so cheerly,

With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,

And ho but I love thee dearly!"

But when the day was done,And the room was at rest,And I sat all aloneWith my birdie in my breast,

But when the day was done,

And the room was at rest,

And I sat all alone

With my birdie in my breast,

And the light had fled,And not a sound was heard,Then my little birdLifted up its head,

And the light had fled,

And not a sound was heard,

Then my little bird

Lifted up its head,

And the little mouthLoosed its sullen pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.

And the little mouth

Loosed its sullen pride,

And it opened, it opened,

With a yearning strong and wide.

Swifter than I speakI brought it food once more,But the poor little beakWas locked as before.

Swifter than I speak

I brought it food once more,

But the poor little beak

Was locked as before.

I sat down again,And not a creature stirred;I laid the little birdAgain where it had laid;

I sat down again,

And not a creature stirred;

I laid the little bird

Again where it had laid;

And again when nothing stirred,And not a word I said,Then my little birdLifted up its head,

And again when nothing stirred,

And not a word I said,

Then my little bird

Lifted up its head,

And the little beakLoosed its stubborn pride,And it opened, it opened,With a yearning strong and wide.

And the little beak

Loosed its stubborn pride,

And it opened, it opened,

With a yearning strong and wide.

It lay in my breast,It uttered no cry,'Twas famished,'twas famished,And I couldn't tell why.

It lay in my breast,

It uttered no cry,

'Twas famished,'twas famished,

And I couldn't tell why.

I couldn't tell why,But I saw that it would die,For all that I kept dancing round and round,And singing about it so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I couldn't tell why,

But I saw that it would die,

For all that I kept dancing round and round,

And singing about it so cheerly,

With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,

And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I never look sad,I hear what people say,I laugh when they are gayAnd they think I am glad.

I never look sad,

I hear what people say,

I laugh when they are gay

And they think I am glad.

My tears never start,I never say a word,But I think that my heartIs like that little bird.

My tears never start,

I never say a word,

But I think that my heart

Is like that little bird.

Every day I read,And I sing, and I play,But thro' the long dayIt taketh no heed.

Every day I read,

And I sing, and I play,

But thro' the long day

It taketh no heed.

It taketh no heedOf any pleasant thing,I know it doth not read,I know it doth not sing.

It taketh no heed

Of any pleasant thing,

I know it doth not read,

I know it doth not sing.

With my mouth I read,With my hands I play,My shut heart is shut,Coax it how you may.

With my mouth I read,

With my hands I play,

My shut heart is shut,

Coax it how you may.

You may coax it how you mayWhile the day is broad and bright,But in the dead nightWhen the guests are gone away,

You may coax it how you may

While the day is broad and bright,

But in the dead night

When the guests are gone away,

And no more the music sweetUp the house doth pass,Nor the dancing feetShake the nursery glass;

And no more the music sweet

Up the house doth pass,

Nor the dancing feet

Shake the nursery glass;

And I've heard my auntAlong the corridor,And my uncle gauntLock his chamber door;

And I've heard my aunt

Along the corridor,

And my uncle gaunt

Lock his chamber door;

And upon the stairAll is hushed and still,And the last wheelIs silent in the square;

And upon the stair

All is hushed and still,

And the last wheel

Is silent in the square;

And the nurses snore,And the dim sheets rise and fall,And the lamplight's on the wall,And the mouse is on the floor;

And the nurses snore,

And the dim sheets rise and fall,

And the lamplight's on the wall,

And the mouse is on the floor;

And the curtains of my bedAre like a heavy cloud,And the clock ticks loud,And sounds are in my head;

And the curtains of my bed

Are like a heavy cloud,

And the clock ticks loud,

And sounds are in my head;

And little Lizzie sleepsSoftly at my side,It opens, it opens,With a yearning strong and wide!

And little Lizzie sleeps

Softly at my side,

It opens, it opens,

With a yearning strong and wide!

It yearns in my breast,It utters no cry,'Tis famished, 'tis famished,And I feel that I shall die,I feel that I shall die,And none will know why.

It yearns in my breast,

It utters no cry,

'Tis famished, 'tis famished,

And I feel that I shall die,

I feel that I shall die,

And none will know why.

Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,And singing about me so cheerly,With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,And ho but I love thee dearly!"Sydney Dobell

Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,

And singing about me so cheerly,

With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,

And ho but I love thee dearly!"

Sydney Dobell

THE FIRST GRIEF"Oh! call my brother back to me,I cannot play alone;The summer comes with flower and bee—Where is my brother gone?"The butterfly is glancing brightAcross the sunbeam's track;I care not now to chase its flight—Oh! call my brother back."The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowedAround our garden tree;Our vine is drooping with its load—Oh! call him back to me.""He would not hear my voice, fair child!He may not come to thee;The face that once like spring-time smiledOn earth no more thou'lt see."A rose's brief, bright life of joy,Such unto him was given;Go—thou must play alone, my boy—Thy brother is in heaven!""And has he left the birds and flowers,And must I call in vain;And through the long, long summer hours,Will he not come again?"And by the brook, and in the glade,Are all our wanderings o'er?Oh! while my brother with me played,Would I had loved him more!"Felicia Hemans

"Oh! call my brother back to me,I cannot play alone;The summer comes with flower and bee—Where is my brother gone?"The butterfly is glancing brightAcross the sunbeam's track;I care not now to chase its flight—Oh! call my brother back."The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowedAround our garden tree;Our vine is drooping with its load—Oh! call him back to me.""He would not hear my voice, fair child!He may not come to thee;The face that once like spring-time smiledOn earth no more thou'lt see."A rose's brief, bright life of joy,Such unto him was given;Go—thou must play alone, my boy—Thy brother is in heaven!""And has he left the birds and flowers,And must I call in vain;And through the long, long summer hours,Will he not come again?"And by the brook, and in the glade,Are all our wanderings o'er?Oh! while my brother with me played,Would I had loved him more!"Felicia Hemans

"Oh! call my brother back to me,I cannot play alone;The summer comes with flower and bee—Where is my brother gone?

"Oh! call my brother back to me,

I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and bee—

Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing brightAcross the sunbeam's track;I care not now to chase its flight—Oh! call my brother back.

"The butterfly is glancing bright

Across the sunbeam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight—

Oh! call my brother back.

"The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowedAround our garden tree;Our vine is drooping with its load—Oh! call him back to me."

"The flowers run wild—the flowers we sowed

Around our garden tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load—

Oh! call him back to me."

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!He may not come to thee;The face that once like spring-time smiledOn earth no more thou'lt see.

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!

He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-time smiled

On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief, bright life of joy,Such unto him was given;Go—thou must play alone, my boy—Thy brother is in heaven!"

"A rose's brief, bright life of joy,

Such unto him was given;

Go—thou must play alone, my boy—

Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left the birds and flowers,And must I call in vain;And through the long, long summer hours,Will he not come again?

"And has he left the birds and flowers,

And must I call in vain;

And through the long, long summer hours,

Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,Are all our wanderings o'er?Oh! while my brother with me played,Would I had loved him more!"Felicia Hemans

"And by the brook, and in the glade,

Are all our wanderings o'er?

Oh! while my brother with me played,

Would I had loved him more!"

Felicia Hemans

THE POPLAR FIELDThe poplars are felled; farewell to the shadeAnd the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a viewOf my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;And now in the grass behold they are laid,And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.The blackbird has fled to another retreatWhere the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,And the scene where his melody charmed me beforeResounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.My fugitive years are all hasting away,And I must ere long lie as lowly as theyWith a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,Have a being less durable even than he.William Cowper

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shadeAnd the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a viewOf my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;And now in the grass behold they are laid,And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.The blackbird has fled to another retreatWhere the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,And the scene where his melody charmed me beforeResounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.My fugitive years are all hasting away,And I must ere long lie as lowly as theyWith a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,Have a being less durable even than he.William Cowper

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shadeAnd the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade

And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;

The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,

Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a viewOf my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;And now in the grass behold they are laid,And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view

Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;

And now in the grass behold they are laid,

And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreatWhere the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,And the scene where his melody charmed me beforeResounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat

Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,

And the scene where his melody charmed me before

Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,And I must ere long lie as lowly as theyWith a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,

And I must ere long lie as lowly as they

With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,

Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,Have a being less durable even than he.William Cowper

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,

To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;

Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,

Have a being less durable even than he.

William Cowper

FAREWELLNot soon shall I forget—a sheetOf golden water, cold and sweet,The young moon with her head in veilsOf silver, and the nightingales.A wain of hay came up the lane—O fields I shall not walk again,And trees I shall not see, so stillAgainst a sky of daffodil!Fields where my happy heart had rest,And where my heart was heaviest,I shall remember them at peaceDrenched in moon-silver like a fleece.The golden water sweet and cold,The moon of silver and of gold,The dew upon the gray grass-spears,I shall remember them with tears.Katharine Tynan

Not soon shall I forget—a sheetOf golden water, cold and sweet,The young moon with her head in veilsOf silver, and the nightingales.A wain of hay came up the lane—O fields I shall not walk again,And trees I shall not see, so stillAgainst a sky of daffodil!Fields where my happy heart had rest,And where my heart was heaviest,I shall remember them at peaceDrenched in moon-silver like a fleece.The golden water sweet and cold,The moon of silver and of gold,The dew upon the gray grass-spears,I shall remember them with tears.Katharine Tynan

Not soon shall I forget—a sheetOf golden water, cold and sweet,The young moon with her head in veilsOf silver, and the nightingales.

Not soon shall I forget—a sheet

Of golden water, cold and sweet,

The young moon with her head in veils

Of silver, and the nightingales.

A wain of hay came up the lane—O fields I shall not walk again,And trees I shall not see, so stillAgainst a sky of daffodil!

A wain of hay came up the lane—

O fields I shall not walk again,

And trees I shall not see, so still

Against a sky of daffodil!

Fields where my happy heart had rest,And where my heart was heaviest,I shall remember them at peaceDrenched in moon-silver like a fleece.

Fields where my happy heart had rest,

And where my heart was heaviest,

I shall remember them at peace

Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.

The golden water sweet and cold,The moon of silver and of gold,The dew upon the gray grass-spears,I shall remember them with tears.Katharine Tynan

The golden water sweet and cold,

The moon of silver and of gold,

The dew upon the gray grass-spears,

I shall remember them with tears.

Katharine Tynan

"YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON"Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care?Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate.Aft hae I roved by bonnie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka[48]bird sang o' its love;And sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw[49]the rose,But left the thorn wi' me.Robert Burns

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care?Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true.Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate.Aft hae I roved by bonnie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka[48]bird sang o' its love;And sae did I o' mine.Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw[49]the rose,But left the thorn wi' me.Robert Burns

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,How can ye bloom sae fair?How can ye chant, ye little birds,And I sae fu' o' care?

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,

How can ye bloom sae fair?

How can ye chant, ye little birds,

And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings upon the bough;Thou minds me o' the happy daysWhen my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings upon the bough;

Thou minds me o' the happy days

When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie birdThat sings beside thy mate;For sae I sat, and sae I sang,And wist na o' my fate.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird

That sings beside thy mate;

For sae I sat, and sae I sang,

And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie DoonTo see the woodbine twine,And ilka[48]bird sang o' its love;And sae did I o' mine.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon

To see the woodbine twine,

And ilka[48]bird sang o' its love;

And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,Frae aff its thorny tree;And my fause luver staw[49]the rose,But left the thorn wi' me.Robert Burns

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,

Frae aff its thorny tree;

And my fause luver staw[49]the rose,

But left the thorn wi' me.

Robert Burns

TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTHCall me no more, O gentle stream,To wander through thy sunny dream,No more to lean at twilight coolAbove thy weir and glimmering pool.Surely I know thy hoary dawns,The silver crisp on all thy lawns,The softly swirling undersongThat rocks thy reeds the winter long.Surely I know the joys that ringThrough the green deeps of leafy spring;I know the elfin cups and domesThat are their small and secret homes.Yet is the light for ever lostThat daily once thy meadows crossed,The voice no more by thee is heardThat matched the song of stream and bird.Call me no more!—thy waters rollHere, in the world that is my soul,And here, though Earth be drowned in night,Old love shall dwell with old delight.Henry Newbolt

Call me no more, O gentle stream,To wander through thy sunny dream,No more to lean at twilight coolAbove thy weir and glimmering pool.Surely I know thy hoary dawns,The silver crisp on all thy lawns,The softly swirling undersongThat rocks thy reeds the winter long.Surely I know the joys that ringThrough the green deeps of leafy spring;I know the elfin cups and domesThat are their small and secret homes.Yet is the light for ever lostThat daily once thy meadows crossed,The voice no more by thee is heardThat matched the song of stream and bird.Call me no more!—thy waters rollHere, in the world that is my soul,And here, though Earth be drowned in night,Old love shall dwell with old delight.Henry Newbolt

Call me no more, O gentle stream,To wander through thy sunny dream,No more to lean at twilight coolAbove thy weir and glimmering pool.

Call me no more, O gentle stream,

To wander through thy sunny dream,

No more to lean at twilight cool

Above thy weir and glimmering pool.

Surely I know thy hoary dawns,The silver crisp on all thy lawns,The softly swirling undersongThat rocks thy reeds the winter long.

Surely I know thy hoary dawns,

The silver crisp on all thy lawns,

The softly swirling undersong

That rocks thy reeds the winter long.

Surely I know the joys that ringThrough the green deeps of leafy spring;I know the elfin cups and domesThat are their small and secret homes.

Surely I know the joys that ring

Through the green deeps of leafy spring;

I know the elfin cups and domes

That are their small and secret homes.

Yet is the light for ever lostThat daily once thy meadows crossed,The voice no more by thee is heardThat matched the song of stream and bird.

Yet is the light for ever lost

That daily once thy meadows crossed,

The voice no more by thee is heard

That matched the song of stream and bird.

Call me no more!—thy waters rollHere, in the world that is my soul,And here, though Earth be drowned in night,Old love shall dwell with old delight.Henry Newbolt

Call me no more!—thy waters roll

Here, in the world that is my soul,

And here, though Earth be drowned in night,

Old love shall dwell with old delight.

Henry Newbolt

THE DESERTED HOUSEThere's no smoke in the chimney,And the rain beats on the floor;There's no glass in the window,There's no wood in the door;The heather grows behind the house,And the sand lies before.No hand hath trained the ivy,The walls are gray and bare;The boats upon the sea sail by,Nor ever tarry there.No beast of the field comes nigh,Nor any bird of the air.Mary Coleridge

There's no smoke in the chimney,And the rain beats on the floor;There's no glass in the window,There's no wood in the door;The heather grows behind the house,And the sand lies before.No hand hath trained the ivy,The walls are gray and bare;The boats upon the sea sail by,Nor ever tarry there.No beast of the field comes nigh,Nor any bird of the air.Mary Coleridge

There's no smoke in the chimney,And the rain beats on the floor;There's no glass in the window,There's no wood in the door;The heather grows behind the house,And the sand lies before.

There's no smoke in the chimney,

And the rain beats on the floor;

There's no glass in the window,

There's no wood in the door;

The heather grows behind the house,

And the sand lies before.

No hand hath trained the ivy,The walls are gray and bare;The boats upon the sea sail by,Nor ever tarry there.No beast of the field comes nigh,Nor any bird of the air.Mary Coleridge

No hand hath trained the ivy,

The walls are gray and bare;

The boats upon the sea sail by,

Nor ever tarry there.

No beast of the field comes nigh,

Nor any bird of the air.

Mary Coleridge

AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADSO, to have a little house!To own the hearth and stool and all!The heaped-up sods upon the fire,The pile of turf against the wall!To have a clock with weights and chainsAnd pendulum swinging up and down!A dresser filled with shining delph,Speckled and white and blue and brown!I could be busy all the dayClearing and sweeping hearth and floor,And fixing on their shelf againMy white and blue and speckled store!I could be quiet there at nightBeside the fire and by myself,Sure of a bed, and loth to leaveThe ticking clock and the shining delph!Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,And roads where there's never a house or bush,And tired I am of bog and roadAnd the crying wind and the lonesome hush!And I am praying to God on high,And I am praying Him night and day,For a little house—a house of my own—Out of the wind's and the rain's way.Padraic Colum

O, to have a little house!To own the hearth and stool and all!The heaped-up sods upon the fire,The pile of turf against the wall!To have a clock with weights and chainsAnd pendulum swinging up and down!A dresser filled with shining delph,Speckled and white and blue and brown!I could be busy all the dayClearing and sweeping hearth and floor,And fixing on their shelf againMy white and blue and speckled store!I could be quiet there at nightBeside the fire and by myself,Sure of a bed, and loth to leaveThe ticking clock and the shining delph!Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,And roads where there's never a house or bush,And tired I am of bog and roadAnd the crying wind and the lonesome hush!And I am praying to God on high,And I am praying Him night and day,For a little house—a house of my own—Out of the wind's and the rain's way.Padraic Colum

O, to have a little house!To own the hearth and stool and all!The heaped-up sods upon the fire,The pile of turf against the wall!

O, to have a little house!

To own the hearth and stool and all!

The heaped-up sods upon the fire,

The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chainsAnd pendulum swinging up and down!A dresser filled with shining delph,Speckled and white and blue and brown!

To have a clock with weights and chains

And pendulum swinging up and down!

A dresser filled with shining delph,

Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the dayClearing and sweeping hearth and floor,And fixing on their shelf againMy white and blue and speckled store!

I could be busy all the day

Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,

And fixing on their shelf again

My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at nightBeside the fire and by myself,Sure of a bed, and loth to leaveThe ticking clock and the shining delph!

I could be quiet there at night

Beside the fire and by myself,

Sure of a bed, and loth to leave

The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,And roads where there's never a house or bush,And tired I am of bog and roadAnd the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,

And roads where there's never a house or bush,

And tired I am of bog and road

And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,And I am praying Him night and day,For a little house—a house of my own—Out of the wind's and the rain's way.Padraic Colum

And I am praying to God on high,

And I am praying Him night and day,

For a little house—a house of my own—

Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

Padraic Colum

A DESERTED HOMEHere where the fields lie lonely and untended,Once stood the old house grey among the trees,Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland—Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;But oh! far away are some who still rememberThe songs of the young girls binding up the corn.Here where the windows shone across the darkness,Here where the stars once watched above the fold,Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedgeMoan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.Sidney Royse Lysaght

Here where the fields lie lonely and untended,Once stood the old house grey among the trees,Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland—Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;But oh! far away are some who still rememberThe songs of the young girls binding up the corn.Here where the windows shone across the darkness,Here where the stars once watched above the fold,Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedgeMoan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.Sidney Royse Lysaght

Here where the fields lie lonely and untended,Once stood the old house grey among the trees,Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland—Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.

Here where the fields lie lonely and untended,

Once stood the old house grey among the trees,

Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland—

Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.

Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;But oh! far away are some who still rememberThe songs of the young girls binding up the corn.

Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,

Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;

But oh! far away are some who still remember

The songs of the young girls binding up the corn.

Here where the windows shone across the darkness,Here where the stars once watched above the fold,Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.

Here where the windows shone across the darkness,

Here where the stars once watched above the fold,

Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;

Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.

Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedgeMoan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.Sidney Royse Lysaght

Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedge

Moan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,

Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,

Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.

Sidney Royse Lysaght

UNDER THE WOODSWhen these old woods were youngThe thrushes' ancestorsAs sweetly sungIn the old years.There was no garden here,Apples nor mistletoe;No children dearRan to and fro.New then was this thatched cot,But the keeper was old,And he had notMuch lead or gold.Most silent beech and yew:As he went round aboutThe woods to viewSeldom he shot.But now that he is goneOut of most memories,Still lingers on,A stoat of his,But one, shrivelled and green,And with no scent at all,And barely seenOn this shed wall.Edward Thomas

When these old woods were youngThe thrushes' ancestorsAs sweetly sungIn the old years.There was no garden here,Apples nor mistletoe;No children dearRan to and fro.New then was this thatched cot,But the keeper was old,And he had notMuch lead or gold.Most silent beech and yew:As he went round aboutThe woods to viewSeldom he shot.But now that he is goneOut of most memories,Still lingers on,A stoat of his,But one, shrivelled and green,And with no scent at all,And barely seenOn this shed wall.Edward Thomas

When these old woods were youngThe thrushes' ancestorsAs sweetly sungIn the old years.

When these old woods were young

The thrushes' ancestors

As sweetly sung

In the old years.

There was no garden here,Apples nor mistletoe;No children dearRan to and fro.

There was no garden here,

Apples nor mistletoe;

No children dear

Ran to and fro.

New then was this thatched cot,But the keeper was old,And he had notMuch lead or gold.

New then was this thatched cot,

But the keeper was old,

And he had not

Much lead or gold.

Most silent beech and yew:As he went round aboutThe woods to viewSeldom he shot.

Most silent beech and yew:

As he went round about

The woods to view

Seldom he shot.

But now that he is goneOut of most memories,Still lingers on,A stoat of his,

But now that he is gone

Out of most memories,

Still lingers on,

A stoat of his,

But one, shrivelled and green,And with no scent at all,And barely seenOn this shed wall.Edward Thomas

But one, shrivelled and green,

And with no scent at all,

And barely seen

On this shed wall.

Edward Thomas

"BLOWS THE WIND TO-DAY"Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all.Robert Louis Stevenson

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all.Robert Louis Stevenson

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,My heart remembers how!

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,

Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,

Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,

My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,And winds, austere and pure:

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,

Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,

Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,

And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,Hills of home! and to hear again the call;Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,And hear no more at all.Robert Louis Stevenson

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,

Hills of home! and to hear again the call;

Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,

And hear no more at all.

Robert Louis Stevenson

THE TWA BROTHERSThere were twa brethren in the north,They went[50]to the school thegither;The one unto the other said,"Will you try a warsle[51]afore?"They warsled up, they warsled down,Till Sir John fell to the ground,And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,Gied him a deadlie wound."O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon burn clear,And wash the blood from off my wound,And it will bleed nae mair."He took him up upon his back,Carried him to yon burn clear,And washd the blood from off his wound,And aye it bled the mair."O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon kirk-yard,And dig a grave baith wide and deep,And lay my body there."He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon kirk-yard,And dug a grave baith deep and wide,And laid his body there."But what will I say to my father dear,Gin[52]he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy him a cask of wine.""And what will I say to my mother dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?'"Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a new silk gown.""And what will I say to my sister dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a wedding ring.""But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?""Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,And home shall never come."

There were twa brethren in the north,They went[50]to the school thegither;The one unto the other said,"Will you try a warsle[51]afore?"They warsled up, they warsled down,Till Sir John fell to the ground,And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,Gied him a deadlie wound."O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon burn clear,And wash the blood from off my wound,And it will bleed nae mair."He took him up upon his back,Carried him to yon burn clear,And washd the blood from off his wound,And aye it bled the mair."O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon kirk-yard,And dig a grave baith wide and deep,And lay my body there."He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon kirk-yard,And dug a grave baith deep and wide,And laid his body there."But what will I say to my father dear,Gin[52]he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy him a cask of wine.""And what will I say to my mother dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?'"Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a new silk gown.""And what will I say to my sister dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a wedding ring.""But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?""Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,And home shall never come."

There were twa brethren in the north,They went[50]to the school thegither;The one unto the other said,"Will you try a warsle[51]afore?"

There were twa brethren in the north,

They went[50]to the school thegither;

The one unto the other said,

"Will you try a warsle[51]afore?"

They warsled up, they warsled down,Till Sir John fell to the ground,And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,Gied him a deadlie wound.

They warsled up, they warsled down,

Till Sir John fell to the ground,

And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,

Gied him a deadlie wound.

"O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon burn clear,And wash the blood from off my wound,And it will bleed nae mair."

"O brither dear, take me on your back,

Carry me to yon burn clear,

And wash the blood from off my wound,

And it will bleed nae mair."

He took him up upon his back,Carried him to yon burn clear,And washd the blood from off his wound,And aye it bled the mair.

He took him up upon his back,

Carried him to yon burn clear,

And washd the blood from off his wound,

And aye it bled the mair.

"O brither dear, take me on your back,Carry me to yon kirk-yard,And dig a grave baith wide and deep,And lay my body there."

"O brither dear, take me on your back,

Carry me to yon kirk-yard,

And dig a grave baith wide and deep,

And lay my body there."

He's taen him up upon his back,Carried him to yon kirk-yard,And dug a grave baith deep and wide,And laid his body there.

He's taen him up upon his back,

Carried him to yon kirk-yard,

And dug a grave baith deep and wide,

And laid his body there.

"But what will I say to my father dear,Gin[52]he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy him a cask of wine."

"But what will I say to my father dear,

Gin[52]he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"

"Oh say that he's to England gone,

To buy him a cask of wine."

"And what will I say to my mother dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?'"Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a new silk gown."

"And what will I say to my mother dear,

Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?'

"Oh say that he's to England gone,

To buy her a new silk gown."

"And what will I say to my sister dear,Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?""Oh say that he's to England gone,To buy her a wedding ring."

"And what will I say to my sister dear,

Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"

"Oh say that he's to England gone,

To buy her a wedding ring."

"But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?""Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,And home shall never come."

"But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,

Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?"

"Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,

And home shall never come."

THE DEAD KNIGHTThe cleanly rush of the mountain air,And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,Are the only things that wander there,The pitiful bones are laid at ease,The grass has grown in his tangled hair,And a rambling bramble binds his knees.To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,The only requiem-bells that rangWere the hare-bell and the heather-bell.Hushed he is with the holy spellIn the gentle hymn the wind sang,And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;The misty rain and the cold dewHave altered him from the kingly one(That his lady loved, and his men knew)And dwindled him to a skeleton.The vetches have twined about his bones,The straggling ivy twists and creepsIn his eye-sockets; the nettle keepsVigil about him while he sleeps.Over his body the wind moansWith a dreary tune throughout the day,In a chorus wistful, eerie, thinAs the gull's cry—as the cry in the bay,The mournful word the seas sayWhen tides are wandering out or in.John Masefield

The cleanly rush of the mountain air,And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,Are the only things that wander there,The pitiful bones are laid at ease,The grass has grown in his tangled hair,And a rambling bramble binds his knees.To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,The only requiem-bells that rangWere the hare-bell and the heather-bell.Hushed he is with the holy spellIn the gentle hymn the wind sang,And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;The misty rain and the cold dewHave altered him from the kingly one(That his lady loved, and his men knew)And dwindled him to a skeleton.The vetches have twined about his bones,The straggling ivy twists and creepsIn his eye-sockets; the nettle keepsVigil about him while he sleeps.Over his body the wind moansWith a dreary tune throughout the day,In a chorus wistful, eerie, thinAs the gull's cry—as the cry in the bay,The mournful word the seas sayWhen tides are wandering out or in.John Masefield

The cleanly rush of the mountain air,

And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,

Are the only things that wander there,

The pitiful bones are laid at ease,

The grass has grown in his tangled hair,

And a rambling bramble binds his knees.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,The only requiem-bells that rangWere the hare-bell and the heather-bell.Hushed he is with the holy spellIn the gentle hymn the wind sang,And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,

The only requiem-bells that rang

Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell.

Hushed he is with the holy spell

In the gentle hymn the wind sang,

And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;The misty rain and the cold dewHave altered him from the kingly one(That his lady loved, and his men knew)And dwindled him to a skeleton.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;

The misty rain and the cold dew

Have altered him from the kingly one

(That his lady loved, and his men knew)

And dwindled him to a skeleton.

The vetches have twined about his bones,The straggling ivy twists and creepsIn his eye-sockets; the nettle keepsVigil about him while he sleeps.

The vetches have twined about his bones,

The straggling ivy twists and creeps

In his eye-sockets; the nettle keeps

Vigil about him while he sleeps.

Over his body the wind moansWith a dreary tune throughout the day,In a chorus wistful, eerie, thinAs the gull's cry—as the cry in the bay,The mournful word the seas sayWhen tides are wandering out or in.John Masefield

Over his body the wind moans

With a dreary tune throughout the day,

In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin

As the gull's cry—as the cry in the bay,

The mournful word the seas say

When tides are wandering out or in.

John Masefield

SHEATH AND KNIFEOne king's daughter said to anither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,"We'll gae ride like sister and brither,"And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."We'll ride doun into yonder valley,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,Whare the greene green trees are budding sae gaily.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."Wi hawke and hounde we will hunt sae rarely,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And we'll come back in the morning early."And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.They rade on like sister and brither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And they hunted and hawket in the valley thegether.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."Now, lady, hauld my horse and my hawk,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,For I maun na[53]ride, and I daur na[54]walk,And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.""But set me doun be the rute o' this tree,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,For there ha'e I dreamt that my bed sall be."And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The ae king's daughter did lift doun the ither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,She was licht in her armis like ony fether.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.Bonnie Lady Ann sat doun be the tree,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And a wide grave was houkit[55]whare nane suld be.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The hawk had nae lure, and the horse had nae master,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And the faithless hounds thro' the woods ran faster.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The one king's daughter has ridden awa',Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,But bonnie Lady Ann lay in the deed-thraw.[56]And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

One king's daughter said to anither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,"We'll gae ride like sister and brither,"And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."We'll ride doun into yonder valley,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,Whare the greene green trees are budding sae gaily.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."Wi hawke and hounde we will hunt sae rarely,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And we'll come back in the morning early."And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.They rade on like sister and brither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And they hunted and hawket in the valley thegether.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair."Now, lady, hauld my horse and my hawk,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,For I maun na[53]ride, and I daur na[54]walk,And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.""But set me doun be the rute o' this tree,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,For there ha'e I dreamt that my bed sall be."And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The ae king's daughter did lift doun the ither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,She was licht in her armis like ony fether.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.Bonnie Lady Ann sat doun be the tree,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And a wide grave was houkit[55]whare nane suld be.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The hawk had nae lure, and the horse had nae master,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,And the faithless hounds thro' the woods ran faster.And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.The one king's daughter has ridden awa',Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,But bonnie Lady Ann lay in the deed-thraw.[56]And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

One king's daughter said to anither,Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair,"We'll gae ride like sister and brither,"And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair.

One king's daughter said to anither,