My mother’s hands are cool and fair,They can do anything.Delicate mercies hide them thereLike flowers in the spring.When I was small and could not sleep,She used to come to me,And with my cheek upon her handHow sure my rest would be.For everything she ever touchedOf beautiful or fine,Their memories living in her handsWould warm that sleep of mine.Her hands remember how they playedOne time in meadow streams,—And all the flickering song and shadeOf water took my dreams.Swift through her haunted fingers passMemories of garden things;—I dipped my face in flowers and grassAnd sounds of hidden wings.One time she touched the cloud that kissedBrown pastures bleak and far;—I leaned my cheek into a mistAnd thought I was a star.All this was very long agoAnd I am grown; but yetThe hand that lured my slumber soI never can forget.For still when drowsiness comes onIt seems so soft and cool,Shaped happily beneath my cheek,Hollow and beautiful.Anna Hempstead Branch
My mother’s hands are cool and fair,They can do anything.Delicate mercies hide them thereLike flowers in the spring.When I was small and could not sleep,She used to come to me,And with my cheek upon her handHow sure my rest would be.For everything she ever touchedOf beautiful or fine,Their memories living in her handsWould warm that sleep of mine.Her hands remember how they playedOne time in meadow streams,—And all the flickering song and shadeOf water took my dreams.Swift through her haunted fingers passMemories of garden things;—I dipped my face in flowers and grassAnd sounds of hidden wings.One time she touched the cloud that kissedBrown pastures bleak and far;—I leaned my cheek into a mistAnd thought I was a star.All this was very long agoAnd I am grown; but yetThe hand that lured my slumber soI never can forget.For still when drowsiness comes onIt seems so soft and cool,Shaped happily beneath my cheek,Hollow and beautiful.Anna Hempstead Branch
My mother’s hands are cool and fair,They can do anything.Delicate mercies hide them thereLike flowers in the spring.
When I was small and could not sleep,She used to come to me,And with my cheek upon her handHow sure my rest would be.
For everything she ever touchedOf beautiful or fine,Their memories living in her handsWould warm that sleep of mine.
Her hands remember how they playedOne time in meadow streams,—And all the flickering song and shadeOf water took my dreams.
Swift through her haunted fingers passMemories of garden things;—I dipped my face in flowers and grassAnd sounds of hidden wings.
One time she touched the cloud that kissedBrown pastures bleak and far;—I leaned my cheek into a mistAnd thought I was a star.
All this was very long agoAnd I am grown; but yetThe hand that lured my slumber soI never can forget.
For still when drowsiness comes onIt seems so soft and cool,Shaped happily beneath my cheek,Hollow and beautiful.
Anna Hempstead Branch
Anna Hempstead Branch
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night!Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen 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 natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;—Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;—Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!James Russell Lowell
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night!Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen 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 natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;—Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;—Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!James Russell Lowell
Into the sunshine,Full of the light,Leaping and flashingFrom morn till night!
Into the moonlight,Whiter than snow,Waving so flower-likeWhen 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 natureNothing can tame,Changed every moment,Ever the same;—
Ceaseless aspiring,Ceaseless content,Darkness or sunshineThy element;—
Glorious fountain!Let my heart beFresh, changeful, constant,Upward, like thee!
James Russell Lowell
James Russell Lowell
Say what you like,All things love me!I pick no flowers—That wins the Bee.The Summer’s MothsThink my hand one—To touch their wings—With Wind and Sun.The garden MouseComes near to play;Indeed, he turnsHis eyes away.The Wren knows wellI rob no nest:When I look in,She still will rest.The hedge stops Cows,Or they would comeAfter my voiceRight to my home.The Horse can tell,Straight from my lip,My hand could notHold any whip.Say what you like,All things love me!Horse, Cow, and Mouse,Bird, Moth and Bee.William H. Davies
Say what you like,All things love me!I pick no flowers—That wins the Bee.The Summer’s MothsThink my hand one—To touch their wings—With Wind and Sun.The garden MouseComes near to play;Indeed, he turnsHis eyes away.The Wren knows wellI rob no nest:When I look in,She still will rest.The hedge stops Cows,Or they would comeAfter my voiceRight to my home.The Horse can tell,Straight from my lip,My hand could notHold any whip.Say what you like,All things love me!Horse, Cow, and Mouse,Bird, Moth and Bee.William H. Davies
Say what you like,All things love me!I pick no flowers—That wins the Bee.
The Summer’s MothsThink my hand one—To touch their wings—With Wind and Sun.
The garden MouseComes near to play;Indeed, he turnsHis eyes away.
The Wren knows wellI rob no nest:When I look in,She still will rest.
The hedge stops Cows,Or they would comeAfter my voiceRight to my home.
The Horse can tell,Straight from my lip,My hand could notHold any whip.
Say what you like,All things love me!Horse, Cow, and Mouse,Bird, Moth and Bee.
William H. Davies
William H. Davies
Tree-toad is a small gray personWith a silver voice.Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadowThat sings.Tree-toad is never seenUnless a star squeezes through the leaves,Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.How would it be, I wonder,To sing patiently all night,Never thinking that people are asleep?Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,The moon, the dew, the other little singers,Cricket ... toad ... leaf rustling....They would listen:It would be music like weatherThat gets into all the cornersOf out-of-doors.Every night I see little shadowsI never saw before.Every night I hear little voicesI never heard before.When night comes trailing her starry cloak,I start out for slumberland,With tree-toads calling along the roadside.Good-night, I say to one,Good-by, I say to another,I hope to find you on the wayWe have traveled before!I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!Hilda Conkling(Six years old)
Tree-toad is a small gray personWith a silver voice.Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadowThat sings.Tree-toad is never seenUnless a star squeezes through the leaves,Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.How would it be, I wonder,To sing patiently all night,Never thinking that people are asleep?Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,The moon, the dew, the other little singers,Cricket ... toad ... leaf rustling....They would listen:It would be music like weatherThat gets into all the cornersOf out-of-doors.Every night I see little shadowsI never saw before.Every night I hear little voicesI never heard before.When night comes trailing her starry cloak,I start out for slumberland,With tree-toads calling along the roadside.Good-night, I say to one,Good-by, I say to another,I hope to find you on the wayWe have traveled before!I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!Hilda Conkling(Six years old)
Tree-toad is a small gray personWith a silver voice.Tree-toad is a leaf-gray shadowThat sings.Tree-toad is never seenUnless a star squeezes through the leaves,Or a moth looks sharply at a gray branch.How would it be, I wonder,To sing patiently all night,Never thinking that people are asleep?Raindrops and mist, starriness over the trees,The moon, the dew, the other little singers,Cricket ... toad ... leaf rustling....They would listen:It would be music like weatherThat gets into all the cornersOf out-of-doors.
Every night I see little shadowsI never saw before.Every night I hear little voicesI never heard before.When night comes trailing her starry cloak,I start out for slumberland,With tree-toads calling along the roadside.Good-night, I say to one,Good-by, I say to another,I hope to find you on the wayWe have traveled before!I hope to hear you singing on the Road of Dreams!
Hilda Conkling(Six years old)
Hilda Conkling(Six years old)
He came all so stillWhere His mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came all so stillWhere His mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.He came all so stillTo His mother’s bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.Mother and maidenWas never none but she!Well might such a ladyGod’s mother be.Author Unknown
He came all so stillWhere His mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.He came all so stillWhere His mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.He came all so stillTo His mother’s bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.Mother and maidenWas never none but she!Well might such a ladyGod’s mother be.Author Unknown
He came all so stillWhere His mother was,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the grass.
He came all so stillWhere His mother lay,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the spray.
He came all so stillTo His mother’s bower,As dew in AprilThat falleth on the flower.
Mother and maidenWas never none but she!Well might such a ladyGod’s mother be.
Author Unknown
Author Unknown
As Joseph was a-waukin’,He heard an angel sing,“This night shall be the birthnightOf Christ our heavenly King.“His birth-bed shall be neitherIn housen nor in hall,Nor in the place of paradise,But in the oxen’s stall.“He neither shall be rockèdIn silver nor in gold,But in the wooden mangerThat lieth in the mould.“He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red,But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed.“He neither shall be clothèdIn purple nor in pall,But in the fair, white linenThat usen babies all.â€As Joseph was a-waukin’,Thus did the angel sing,And Mary’s son at midnightWas born to be our King.Then be you glad, good people,At this time of the year;And light you up your candles,For His star it shineth clear.Author Unknown
As Joseph was a-waukin’,He heard an angel sing,“This night shall be the birthnightOf Christ our heavenly King.“His birth-bed shall be neitherIn housen nor in hall,Nor in the place of paradise,But in the oxen’s stall.“He neither shall be rockèdIn silver nor in gold,But in the wooden mangerThat lieth in the mould.“He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red,But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed.“He neither shall be clothèdIn purple nor in pall,But in the fair, white linenThat usen babies all.â€As Joseph was a-waukin’,Thus did the angel sing,And Mary’s son at midnightWas born to be our King.Then be you glad, good people,At this time of the year;And light you up your candles,For His star it shineth clear.Author Unknown
As Joseph was a-waukin’,He heard an angel sing,“This night shall be the birthnightOf Christ our heavenly King.
“His birth-bed shall be neitherIn housen nor in hall,Nor in the place of paradise,But in the oxen’s stall.
“He neither shall be rockèdIn silver nor in gold,But in the wooden mangerThat lieth in the mould.
“He neither shall be washenWith white wine nor with red,But with the fair spring waterThat on you shall be shed.
“He neither shall be clothèdIn purple nor in pall,But in the fair, white linenThat usen babies all.â€
As Joseph was a-waukin’,Thus did the angel sing,And Mary’s son at midnightWas born to be our King.
Then be you glad, good people,At this time of the year;And light you up your candles,For His star it shineth clear.
Author Unknown
Author Unknown
An ancient story I’ll tell you anonOf a notable prince that was called King John;And he rulèd England with main and with might,For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.And I’ll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his house-keeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.An hundred men the king did hear say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the abbot about.“How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy house-keeping and high renown,I fear thou work’st treason against my own crown.â€â€œMy liege,†quo’ the abbot, “I would it were knownI never spend nothing, but what is my own;And I trust your grace will do me no deere,For spending of my own true-gotten gear.â€â€œYes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.“And first,†quo’ the king, “when I’m in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.“Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question, thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€â€œO these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:But if you will give me but three weeks’ space,I’ll do my endeavor to answer your grace.â€â€œNow three weeks’ space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.â€
An ancient story I’ll tell you anonOf a notable prince that was called King John;And he rulèd England with main and with might,For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.And I’ll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his house-keeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.An hundred men the king did hear say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the abbot about.“How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy house-keeping and high renown,I fear thou work’st treason against my own crown.â€â€œMy liege,†quo’ the abbot, “I would it were knownI never spend nothing, but what is my own;And I trust your grace will do me no deere,For spending of my own true-gotten gear.â€â€œYes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.“And first,†quo’ the king, “when I’m in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.“Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question, thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€â€œO these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:But if you will give me but three weeks’ space,I’ll do my endeavor to answer your grace.â€â€œNow three weeks’ space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.â€
An ancient story I’ll tell you anonOf a notable prince that was called King John;And he rulèd England with main and with might,For he did great wrong, and maintained little right.
And I’ll tell you a story, a story so merry,Concerning the Abbot of Canterbury;How for his house-keeping and high renown,They rode post for him to fair London town.
An hundred men the king did hear say,The abbot kept in his house every day;And fifty gold chains without any doubt,In velvet coats waited the abbot about.
“How now, father abbot, I hear it of thee,Thou keepest a far better house than me;And for thy house-keeping and high renown,I fear thou work’st treason against my own crown.â€
“My liege,†quo’ the abbot, “I would it were knownI never spend nothing, but what is my own;And I trust your grace will do me no deere,For spending of my own true-gotten gear.â€
“Yes, yes, father abbot, thy fault it is high,And now for the same thou needest must die;For except thou canst answer me questions three,Thy head shall be smitten from thy bodie.
“And first,†quo’ the king, “when I’m in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Thou must tell me to one penny what I am worth.
“Secondly, tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride the whole world about;And at the third question, thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€
“O these are hard questions for my shallow wit,Nor I cannot answer your grace as yet:But if you will give me but three weeks’ space,I’ll do my endeavor to answer your grace.â€
“Now three weeks’ space to thee will I give,And that is the longest time thou hast to live;For if thou dost not answer my questions three,Thy lands and thy livings are forfeit to me.â€
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a-going to fold:“How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?â€â€œSad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.“The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.“The second, to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.â€â€œNow cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I’ll ride to London to answer your quarrel.“Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship, as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gown,There is none shall know us at fair London town.â€â€œNow horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear ’fore our Father the Pope.â€â€œNow welcome, sire abbot,†the king he did say,“’Tis well thou’rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both savèd shall be.“And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.â€â€œFor thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told,And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he.â€
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a-going to fold:“How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?â€â€œSad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.“The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.“The second, to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.â€â€œNow cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I’ll ride to London to answer your quarrel.“Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship, as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gown,There is none shall know us at fair London town.â€â€œNow horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear ’fore our Father the Pope.â€â€œNow welcome, sire abbot,†the king he did say,“’Tis well thou’rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both savèd shall be.“And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.â€â€œFor thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told,And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he.â€
Away rode the abbot all sad at that word,And he rode to Cambridge, and Oxenford;But never a doctor there was so wise,That could with his learning an answer devise.
Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold,And he met his shepherd a-going to fold:“How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home;What news do you bring us from good King John?â€
“Sad news, sad news, shepherd, I must give,That I have but three days more to live;For if I do not answer him questions three,My head will be smitten from my bodie.
“The first is to tell him there in that stead,With his crown of gold so fair on his head,Among all his liege-men so noble of birth,To within one penny of what he is worth.
“The second, to tell him without any doubt,How soon he may ride this whole world about;And at the third question I must not shrink,But tell him there truly what he does think.â€
“Now cheer up, sire abbot, did you never hear yetThat a fool he may learn a wise man wit?Lend me horse, and serving-men, and your apparel,And I’ll ride to London to answer your quarrel.
“Nay, frown not, if it hath been told unto me,I am like your lordship, as ever may be;And if you will but lend me your gown,There is none shall know us at fair London town.â€
“Now horses and serving-men thou shalt have,With sumptuous array most gallant and brave,With crozier and mitre, and rochet, and cope,Fit to appear ’fore our Father the Pope.â€
“Now welcome, sire abbot,†the king he did say,“’Tis well thou’rt come back to keep thy day:For and if thou canst answer my questions three,Thy life and thy living both savèd shall be.
“And first, when thou seest me here in this stead,With my crown of gold so fair on my head,Among all my liege-men so noble of birth,Tell me to one penny what I am worth.â€
“For thirty pence our Saviour was soldAmong the false Jews, as I have been told,And twenty-nine is the worth of thee,For I think thou art one penny worser than he.â€
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,“I did not think I had been worth so little!—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.â€â€œYou must rise with the sun, and ride with the sameUntil the next morning he riseth again;And then your grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.â€The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,“I did not think it could be done so soon!—Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€â€œYea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;You think I’m the Abbot of Canterbury;But I’m his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.â€The king he laughed and swore by the Mass,“I’ll make thee lord abbot this day in this place!â€â€œNow nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack I can neither write nor read.â€â€œFour nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.â€Author Unknown
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,“I did not think I had been worth so little!—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.â€â€œYou must rise with the sun, and ride with the sameUntil the next morning he riseth again;And then your grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.â€The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,“I did not think it could be done so soon!—Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€â€œYea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;You think I’m the Abbot of Canterbury;But I’m his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.â€The king he laughed and swore by the Mass,“I’ll make thee lord abbot this day in this place!â€â€œNow nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack I can neither write nor read.â€â€œFour nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.â€Author Unknown
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Bittel,“I did not think I had been worth so little!—Now secondly tell me, without any doubt,How soon I may ride this whole world about.â€
“You must rise with the sun, and ride with the sameUntil the next morning he riseth again;And then your grace need not make any doubtBut in twenty-four hours you’ll ride it about.â€
The king he laughed, and swore by St. Jone,“I did not think it could be done so soon!—Now from the third question thou must not shrink,But tell me here truly what I do think.â€
“Yea, that shall I do, and make your grace merry;You think I’m the Abbot of Canterbury;But I’m his poor shepherd, as plain you may see,That am come to beg pardon for him and for me.â€
The king he laughed and swore by the Mass,“I’ll make thee lord abbot this day in this place!â€â€œNow nay, my liege, be not in such speed,For alack I can neither write nor read.â€
“Four nobles a week, then, I will give thee,For this merry jest thou hast shown unto me;And tell the old abbot when thou comest home,Thou hast brought him a pardon from good King John.â€
Author Unknown
Author Unknown
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!â€The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.â€They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!Charles Kingsley
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!â€The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.â€They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!Charles Kingsley
“O Mary, go and call the cattle home,And call the cattle home,And call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!â€The western wind was wild and dank with foam,And all alone went she.
The western tide crept up along the sand,And o’er and o’er the sand,And round and round the sand,As far as eye could see.The rolling mist came down and hid the land:And never home came she.
“Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair—A tress of golden hair,A drownèd maiden’s hairAbove the nets at sea?Was never salmon yet that shone so fairAmong the stakes on Dee.â€
They rowed her in across the rolling foam,The cruel crawling foam,The cruel hungry foam,To her grave beside the sea:But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle homeAcross the sands of Dee!
Charles Kingsley
Charles Kingsley
Sister, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!Author Unknown
Sister, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!Author Unknown
Sister, awake! close not your eyes!The day her light discloses,And the bright morning doth ariseOut of her bed of roses.
See the clear sun, the world’s bright eye,In at our window peeping:Lo, how he blusheth to espyUs idle wenches sleeping!
Therefore awake! make haste, I say,And let us, without staying,All in our gowns of green so gayInto the Park a-maying!
Author Unknown
Author Unknown
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor dressed,Comest to daunt me!Wrapped not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?â€Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water’s flowUnder December’s snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart’s chamber.“I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man’s curseFor this I sought thee.“Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic’s strand,I with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.“Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf’s bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.“But when I older grew,Joining a corsair’s crew,O’er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.“Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk’s taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o’erflowing.“Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest’s shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.“Bright in her father’s hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter’s hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story.“While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.“She was a Prince’s child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew’s flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?“Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.“Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.“And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,‘Death without quarter!’Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!“As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden,—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.“Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o’er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady’s bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward.“There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden’s tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne’er shall the sun ariseOn such another!“Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!“Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior’s soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!â€Thus the tale ended.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor dressed,Comest to daunt me!Wrapped not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?â€Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water’s flowUnder December’s snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart’s chamber.“I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man’s curseFor this I sought thee.“Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic’s strand,I with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.“Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf’s bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.“But when I older grew,Joining a corsair’s crew,O’er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.“Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk’s taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o’erflowing.“Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest’s shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.“Bright in her father’s hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter’s hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story.“While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.“She was a Prince’s child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew’s flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?“Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.“Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.“And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,‘Death without quarter!’Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!“As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden,—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.“Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o’er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady’s bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward.“There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden’s tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne’er shall the sun ariseOn such another!“Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!“Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior’s soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!â€Thus the tale ended.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
“Speak! speak! thou fearful guest!Who, with thy hollow breastStill in rude armor dressed,Comest to daunt me!Wrapped not in Eastern balms,But with thy fleshless palmsStretched, as if asking alms,Why dost thou haunt me?â€
Then, from those cavernous eyesPale flashes seemed to rise,As when the Northern skiesGleam in December;And, like the water’s flowUnder December’s snow,Came a dull voice of woeFrom the heart’s chamber.
“I was a Viking old!My deeds, though manifold,No Skald in song has told,No Saga taught thee!Take heed, that in thy verseThou dost the tale rehearse,Else dread a dead man’s curseFor this I sought thee.
“Far in the Northern Land,By the wild Baltic’s strand,I with my childish hand,Tamed the gerfalcon;And, with my skates fast-bound,Skimmed the half-frozen Sound,That the poor whimpering houndTrembled to walk on.
“Oft to his frozen lairTracked I the grisly bear,While from my path the hareFled like a shadow;Oft through the forest darkFollowed the were-wolf’s bark,Until the soaring larkSang from the meadow.
“But when I older grew,Joining a corsair’s crew,O’er the dark sea I flewWith the marauders.Wild was the life we led;Many the souls that sped,Many the hearts that bled,By our stern orders.
“Many a wassail-boutWore the long Winter out;Often our midnight shoutSet the cocks crowing,As we the Berserk’s taleMeasured in cups of ale,Draining the oaken pail,Filled to o’erflowing.
“Once as I told in gleeTales of the stormy sea,Soft eyes did gaze on me,Burning yet tender;And as the white stars shineOn the dark Norway pine,On that dark heart of mineFell their soft splendor.
“I wooed the blue-eyed maid,Yielding, yet half afraid,And in the forest’s shadeOur vows were plighted.Under its loosened vestFluttered her little breast,Like birds within their nestBy the hawk frighted.
“Bright in her father’s hallShields gleamed upon the wall,Loud sang the minstrels all,Chanting his glory;When of old HildebrandI asked his daughter’s hand,Mute did the minstrels standTo hear my story.
“While the brown ale he quaffed,Loud then the champion laughed,And as the wind-gusts waftThe sea-foam brightly,So the loud laugh of scorn,Out of those lips unshorn,From the deep drinking-hornBlew the foam lightly.
“She was a Prince’s child,I but a Viking wild,And though she blushed and smiled,I was discarded!Should not the dove so whiteFollow the sea-mew’s flight,Why did they leave that nightHer nest unguarded?
“Scarce had I put to sea,Bearing the maid with me,Fairest of all was sheAmong the Norsemen!When on the white sea-strand,Waving his armèd hand,Saw we old Hildebrand,With twenty horsemen.
“Then launched they to the blast,Bent like a reed each mast,Yet we were gaining fast,When the wind failed us;And with a sudden flawCame round the gusty Skaw,So that our foe we sawLaugh as he hailed us.
“And as to catch the galeRound veered the flapping sail,‘Death!’ was the helmsman’s hail,‘Death without quarter!’Mid-ships with iron keelStruck we her ribs of steel;Down her black hulk did reelThrough the black water!
“As with his wings aslant,Sails the fierce cormorant,Seeking some rocky haunt,With his prey laden,—So toward the open main,Beating to sea again,Through the wild hurricane,Bore I the maiden.
“Three weeks we westward bore,And when the storm was o’er,Cloud-like we saw the shoreStretching to leeward;There for my lady’s bowerBuilt I the lofty tower,Which, to this very hour,Stands looking seaward.
“There lived we many years;Time dried the maiden’s tears;She had forgot her fears,She was a mother;Death closed her mild blue eyes,Under that tower she lies;Ne’er shall the sun ariseOn such another!
“Still grew my bosom then,Still as a stagnant fen!Hateful to me were men,The sunlight hateful!In the vast forest here,Clad in my warlike gear,Fell I upon my spear,Oh, death was grateful!
“Thus, seamed with many scars,Bursting these prison bars,Up to its native starsMy soul ascended!There from the flowing bowlDeep drinks the warrior’s soul,Skoal!to the Northland!skoal!â€Thus the tale ended.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.That bower and its music I never forget,But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave,But some blossoms were gather’d while freshly they shone,And a dew was distill’d from their flowers, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it many a year;Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!Thomas Moore
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.That bower and its music I never forget,But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave,But some blossoms were gather’d while freshly they shone,And a dew was distill’d from their flowers, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it many a year;Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!Thomas Moore
There’s a bower of roses by Bendemeer’s stream,And the nightingale sings round it all the day long;In the time of my childhood ’twas like a sweet dream,To sit in the roses and hear the bird’s song.
That bower and its music I never forget,But oft when alone, in the bloom of the year,I think—is the nightingale singing there yet?Are the roses still bright by the calm Bendemeer?
No, the roses soon wither’d that hung o’er the wave,But some blossoms were gather’d while freshly they shone,And a dew was distill’d from their flowers, that gaveAll the fragrance of summer, when summer was gone.
Thus memory draws from delight, ere it dies,An essence that breathes of it many a year;Thus bright to my soul, as ’twas then to my eyes,Is that bower on the banks of the calm Bendemeer!
Thomas Moore
Thomas Moore
Teach me, Father, how to goSoftly as the grasses grow;Hush my soul to meet the shockOf the wild world as a rock;But my spirit, propt with power,Make as simple as a flower.Let the dry heart fill its cup,Like a poppy looking up;Let life lightly wear her crown,Like a poppy looking down.Teach me, Father, how to beKind and patient as a tree.Joyfully the crickets croonUnder shady oak at noon;Beetle, on his mission bent,Tarries in that cooling tent.Let me, also, cheer a spot,Hidden field or garden grot—Place where passing souls can restOn the way and be their best.Edwin Markham
Teach me, Father, how to goSoftly as the grasses grow;Hush my soul to meet the shockOf the wild world as a rock;But my spirit, propt with power,Make as simple as a flower.Let the dry heart fill its cup,Like a poppy looking up;Let life lightly wear her crown,Like a poppy looking down.Teach me, Father, how to beKind and patient as a tree.Joyfully the crickets croonUnder shady oak at noon;Beetle, on his mission bent,Tarries in that cooling tent.Let me, also, cheer a spot,Hidden field or garden grot—Place where passing souls can restOn the way and be their best.Edwin Markham
Teach me, Father, how to goSoftly as the grasses grow;Hush my soul to meet the shockOf the wild world as a rock;But my spirit, propt with power,Make as simple as a flower.Let the dry heart fill its cup,Like a poppy looking up;Let life lightly wear her crown,Like a poppy looking down.
Teach me, Father, how to beKind and patient as a tree.Joyfully the crickets croonUnder shady oak at noon;Beetle, on his mission bent,Tarries in that cooling tent.Let me, also, cheer a spot,Hidden field or garden grot—Place where passing souls can restOn the way and be their best.
Edwin Markham
Edwin Markham
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapons 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 stopp’d not for stone;He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;—Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),‘O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’‘I long 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 mineTo 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,’ quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan,Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran,There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 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 Walter Scott
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapons 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 stopp’d not for stone;He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;—Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),‘O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’‘I long 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 mineTo 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,’ quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan,Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran,There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 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 Walter Scott
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the West!Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword, he weapons 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 stopp’d not for stone;He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late;For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter’d the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all;—Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),‘O, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’
‘I long 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 mineTo 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,’ quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan,Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran,There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie 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 Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
Three jolly FarmersOnce bet a poundEach dance the others wouldOff the ground.Out of their coatsThey slipped right soon,And neat and nicesomePut each his shoon.One—Two—Three!—And away they go,Not too fast,And not too slow;Out from the elm-tree’sNoonday shadow,Into the sunAnd across the meadow.Past the schoolroom,With knees well bentFingers a-flicking,They dancing went.Up sides and over,And round and round,They crossed click-clacking,The Parish bound,By Tupman’s meadowThey did their mile,Tee-to-tumOn a three-barred stile.Then straight through Whipham,Downhill to Week,Footing it lightsome,But not too quick,Up fields to Watchet,And on through Wye,Till seven fine churchesThey’d seen skip by—Seven fine churches,And five old mills,Farms in the valley,And sheep on the hills;Old Man’s AcreAnd Dead Man’s PoolAll left behind,As they danced through Wool.And Wool gone by,Like tops that seemTo spin in sleepThey danced in dream:Withy—Wellover—Wassop—Wo—Like an old clockTheir heels did go.A league and a leagueAnd a league they went,
Three jolly FarmersOnce bet a poundEach dance the others wouldOff the ground.Out of their coatsThey slipped right soon,And neat and nicesomePut each his shoon.One—Two—Three!—And away they go,Not too fast,And not too slow;Out from the elm-tree’sNoonday shadow,Into the sunAnd across the meadow.Past the schoolroom,With knees well bentFingers a-flicking,They dancing went.Up sides and over,And round and round,They crossed click-clacking,The Parish bound,By Tupman’s meadowThey did their mile,Tee-to-tumOn a three-barred stile.Then straight through Whipham,Downhill to Week,Footing it lightsome,But not too quick,Up fields to Watchet,And on through Wye,Till seven fine churchesThey’d seen skip by—Seven fine churches,And five old mills,Farms in the valley,And sheep on the hills;Old Man’s AcreAnd Dead Man’s PoolAll left behind,As they danced through Wool.And Wool gone by,Like tops that seemTo spin in sleepThey danced in dream:Withy—Wellover—Wassop—Wo—Like an old clockTheir heels did go.A league and a leagueAnd a league they went,
Three jolly FarmersOnce bet a poundEach dance the others wouldOff the ground.Out of their coatsThey slipped right soon,And neat and nicesomePut each his shoon.One—Two—Three!—And away they go,Not too fast,And not too slow;Out from the elm-tree’sNoonday shadow,Into the sunAnd across the meadow.Past the schoolroom,With knees well bentFingers a-flicking,They dancing went.Up sides and over,And round and round,They crossed click-clacking,The Parish bound,By Tupman’s meadowThey did their mile,Tee-to-tumOn a three-barred stile.Then straight through Whipham,Downhill to Week,Footing it lightsome,But not too quick,Up fields to Watchet,And on through Wye,Till seven fine churchesThey’d seen skip by—Seven fine churches,And five old mills,Farms in the valley,And sheep on the hills;Old Man’s AcreAnd Dead Man’s PoolAll left behind,As they danced through Wool.And Wool gone by,Like tops that seemTo spin in sleepThey danced in dream:Withy—Wellover—Wassop—Wo—Like an old clockTheir heels did go.A league and a leagueAnd a league they went,