The stately homes of England!How beautiful they stand,Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam;And the swan glides by them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream.The merry homes of England!Around their hearths by night,What gladsome looks of household loveMeet in the ruddy light!The blessed homes of England!How softly on their bowersIs laid the holy quietnessThat breathes from sabbath hours!The cottage homes of England!By thousands on her plainsThey are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,And round the hamlet fanes.Through glowing orchards forth they peep,Each from its nook of leaves;And fearless there the lowly sleep,As the bird beneath their eaves.The free, fair homes of England!Long, long, in hut and hall,May hearts of native proof be rear'dTo guard each hallow'd wall!And green for ever be the groves,And bright the flowery sod,Where first the child's glad spirit lovesIts country and its God!
The stately homes of England!How beautiful they stand,Amidst their tall ancestral trees,O'er all the pleasant land!The deer across their greensward boundThrough shade and sunny gleam;And the swan glides by them with the soundOf some rejoicing stream.
The merry homes of England!Around their hearths by night,What gladsome looks of household loveMeet in the ruddy light!The blessed homes of England!How softly on their bowersIs laid the holy quietnessThat breathes from sabbath hours!
The cottage homes of England!By thousands on her plainsThey are smiling o'er the silvery brooks,And round the hamlet fanes.Through glowing orchards forth they peep,Each from its nook of leaves;And fearless there the lowly sleep,As the bird beneath their eaves.
The free, fair homes of England!Long, long, in hut and hall,May hearts of native proof be rear'dTo guard each hallow'd wall!And green for ever be the groves,And bright the flowery sod,Where first the child's glad spirit lovesIts country and its God!
F. Hemans
Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyesSeem a heart overcharged to express?She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;She never complains, but her silence impliesThe composure of settled distress.No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleakOn that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheekHath the hue of a mortal despair.Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;The traveller remembers who journey'd this wayNo damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delightAs she welcom'd them in with a smile;Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,And Mary would walk by the Abbey at nightWhen the wind whistled down the dark aisle.She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,And she hoped to be happy for life;But Richard was idle and worthless, and theyWho knew him would pity poor Mary and sayThat she was too good for his wife.Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,And fast were the windows and door;Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight,They listen'd to hear the wind roar.''Tis pleasant,' cried one, 'seated by the firesideTo hear the wind whistle without.''What a night for the Abbey!' his comrade replied,'Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,Who should wander the ruins about.'I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hearThe hoarse ivy shake over my head;And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear,For this wind might awaken the dead!''I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried,'That Mary would venture there now.''Then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied,'I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,And faint if she saw a white cow.''Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?'His companion exclaimed with a smile;'I shall win—for I know she will venture there nowAnd earn a new bonnet by bringing a boughFrom the elder that grows in the aisle.'With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,And her way to the Abbey she bent;The night was dark, and the wind was high,And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,She shiver'd with cold as she went.O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid,Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shadeSeem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.All around her was silent save when the rude blastHowl'd dismally round the old pile;Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly passed,And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near,And hastily gather'd the bough;When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,She paus'd, and she listen'd intently, in fear,And her heart panted painfully now.The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,She listen'd, nought else could she hear;The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,For she heard in the ruins distinctly the treadOf footsteps approaching her near.Behind a wide column half breathless with fearShe crept to conceal herself there:That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,And between them a corpse they did bear.Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold;Again the rough wind hurried by—It blew off the hat of the one, and behold,Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,—She felt, and expected to die.'Curse the hat!' he exclaims. 'Nay, come on till we hideThe dead body,' his comrade replies.She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,And fast through the Abbey she flies.She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,She gazed in her terror around,Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,Unable to utter a sound.Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,For a moment the hat met her view;Her eyes from that object convulsively start,For—what a cold horror then thrill'd through her heartWhen the name of her Richard she knew!Where the old Abbey stands, on the Common hard by,His gibbet is now to be seen;His irons you still from the road may espy;The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sighOf poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Who is yonder poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyesSeem a heart overcharged to express?She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;She never complains, but her silence impliesThe composure of settled distress.
No pity she looks for, no alms doth she seek;Nor for raiment nor food doth she care:Through her tatters the winds of the winter blow bleakOn that wither'd breast, and her weather-worn cheekHath the hue of a mortal despair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,Poor Mary the Maniac hath been;The traveller remembers who journey'd this wayNo damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,As Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
Her cheerful address fill'd the guests with delightAs she welcom'd them in with a smile;Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,And Mary would walk by the Abbey at nightWhen the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,And she hoped to be happy for life;But Richard was idle and worthless, and theyWho knew him would pity poor Mary and sayThat she was too good for his wife.
Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,And fast were the windows and door;Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,And, smoking in silence with tranquil delight,They listen'd to hear the wind roar.
''Tis pleasant,' cried one, 'seated by the firesideTo hear the wind whistle without.''What a night for the Abbey!' his comrade replied,'Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried,Who should wander the ruins about.
'I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hearThe hoarse ivy shake over my head;And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,Some ugly old abbot's grim spirit appear,For this wind might awaken the dead!'
'I'll wager a dinner,' the other one cried,'That Mary would venture there now.''Then wager and lose!' with a sneer he replied,'I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,And faint if she saw a white cow.'
'Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?'His companion exclaimed with a smile;'I shall win—for I know she will venture there nowAnd earn a new bonnet by bringing a boughFrom the elder that grows in the aisle.'
With fearless good-humour did Mary comply,And her way to the Abbey she bent;The night was dark, and the wind was high,And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,She shiver'd with cold as she went.
O'er the path so well known still proceeded the maid,Where the Abbey rose dim on the sight;Through the gateway she enter'd, she felt not afraid,Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shadeSeem'd to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent save when the rude blastHowl'd dismally round the old pile;Over weed-cover'd fragments she fearlessly passed,And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,Where the elder-tree grew in the aisle.
Well pleas'd did she reach it, and quickly drew near,And hastily gather'd the bough;When the sound of a voice seem'd to rise on her ear,She paus'd, and she listen'd intently, in fear,And her heart panted painfully now.
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head,She listen'd, nought else could she hear;The wind fell; her heart sunk in her bosom with dread,For she heard in the ruins distinctly the treadOf footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column half breathless with fearShe crept to conceal herself there:That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,And between them a corpse they did bear.
Then Mary could feel the heart-blood curdle cold;Again the rough wind hurried by—It blew off the hat of the one, and behold,Even close to the feet of poor Mary it roll'd,—She felt, and expected to die.
'Curse the hat!' he exclaims. 'Nay, come on till we hideThe dead body,' his comrade replies.She beholds them in safety pass on by her side,She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,And fast through the Abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rush'd in at the door,She gazed in her terror around,Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,And exhausted and breathless she sank on the floor,Unable to utter a sound.
Ere yet her pale lips could the story impart,For a moment the hat met her view;Her eyes from that object convulsively start,For—what a cold horror then thrill'd through her heartWhen the name of her Richard she knew!
Where the old Abbey stands, on the Common hard by,His gibbet is now to be seen;His irons you still from the road may espy;The traveller beholds them, and thinks with a sighOf poor Mary, the Maid of the Inn.
R. Southey
1st Witch.When shall we three meet againIn thunder, lightning, or in rain?2d Witch.When the hurly-burley's done,When the battle's lost or won:3d Witch.That will be ere set of sun.1st Witch.Where the place?2d Witch.Upon the heath;3d Witch.There to meet with Macbeth.1st Witch.I come Grimalkin!All.Paddock calls:—anon—Fair is foul, and foul is fair;Hover through the fog and filthy air.THE CHARM1st Witch.Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.2d Witch.Thrice: and once the hedgehog whined.3d Witch.Harpier cries:—'Tis time, 'tis time:1st Witch.Round about the caldron go:In the poison'd entrails throw.Toad, that under the cold stone,Days and nights hast thirty-oneSwelter'd venom sleeping got,Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.2d Witch.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the caldron boil and bake;Eye of newt, and toe of frog,Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,For a charm of powerful trouble;Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.3d Witch.Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;Witches' mummy; maw and gulfOf the ravin'd salt sea shark;Root of hemlock, digged i' the dark;Liver of blaspheming Jew;Gall of goat, and slips of yewSliver'd in the moon's eclipse;Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,For the ingredients of our caldron.All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.2d Witch.Cool it with a baboon's blood,Then the charm is firm and good.
1st Witch.Thrice the brinded cat hath mewed.2d Witch.Thrice: and once the hedgehog whined.3d Witch.Harpier cries:—'Tis time, 'tis time:1st Witch.Round about the caldron go:In the poison'd entrails throw.Toad, that under the cold stone,Days and nights hast thirty-oneSwelter'd venom sleeping got,Boil thou first i' the charmed pot!All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.2d Witch.Fillet of a fenny snake,In the caldron boil and bake;Eye of newt, and toe of frog,Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,Adder's fork, and blind-worm's sting,Lizard's leg, and owlet's wing,For a charm of powerful trouble;Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.3d Witch.Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf;Witches' mummy; maw and gulfOf the ravin'd salt sea shark;Root of hemlock, digged i' the dark;Liver of blaspheming Jew;Gall of goat, and slips of yewSliver'd in the moon's eclipse;Nose of Turk, and Tartar's lips;Add thereto a tiger's chaudron,For the ingredients of our caldron.All.Double, double toil and trouble;Fire burn, and, caldron, bubble.2d Witch.Cool it with a baboon's blood,Then the charm is firm and good.
W. Shakespeare
The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,And sad pale Adelgitha came,When forth a valiant champion bounded,And slew the slanderer of her fame.She wept, deliver'd from her danger;But when he knelt to claim her glove—'Seek not,' she cried, 'oh! gallant stranger,For hapless Adelgitha's love.'For he is in a foreign far landWhose arms should now have set me free;And I must wear the willow garlandFor him that's dead or false to me.''Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!'He raised his vizor—at the sightShe fell into his arms and fainted;It was indeed her own true knight!
The ordeal's fatal trumpet sounded,And sad pale Adelgitha came,When forth a valiant champion bounded,And slew the slanderer of her fame.
She wept, deliver'd from her danger;But when he knelt to claim her glove—'Seek not,' she cried, 'oh! gallant stranger,For hapless Adelgitha's love.
'For he is in a foreign far landWhose arms should now have set me free;And I must wear the willow garlandFor him that's dead or false to me.'
'Nay! say not that his faith is tainted!'He raised his vizor—at the sightShe fell into his arms and fainted;It was indeed her own true knight!
T. Campbell
Upon a time a neighing steed,Who graz'd among a numerous breed,With mutiny had fired the train,And spread dissension through the plainOn matters that concern'd the state,The council met in grand debate.A colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire,Elate with strength and youthful fire,In haste stept forth before the rest,And thus the listening throng address'd.'Goodness, how abject is our race,Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace!Shall we our servitude retain,Because our sires have borne the chain?Consider, friends! your strength and might;'Tis conquest to assert your right.How cumbrous is the gilded coach!The pride of man is our reproach.Were we design'd for daily toil,To drag the ploughshare through the soil,To sweat in harness through the road,To groan beneath the carrier's load?How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!What force is in our nerves combin'd!Shall then our nobler jaws submitTo foam and champ the galling bit?Shall haughty man my back bestride?Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein;Your shame, your infamy, disdain.Let him the lion first control,And still the tiger's famish'd growl.Let us, like them, our freedom claim,And make him tremble at our name.'A general nod approv'd the cause,And all the circle neigh'd applause.When, lo! with grave and solemn pace,A steed advanc'd before the race,With age and long experience wise;Around he cast his thoughtful eyes,And, to the murmurs of the train,Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain.'When I had health and strength like youThe toils of servitude I knew;Now grateful man rewards my pains,And gives me all these wide domains.At will I crop the year's increase;My latter life is rest and peace.I grant, to man we lend our pains,And aid him to correct the plains;But doth not he divide the care,Through all the labours of the year?How many thousand structures rise,To fence us from inclement skies!For us he bears the sultry day,And stores up all our winter's hay.He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain;We share the toil and share the grain.Since every creature was decreedTo aid each other's mutual need,Appease your discontented mind,And act the part by heaven assign'd.'The tumult ceas'd, the colt submitted,And, like his ancestors, was bitted.
Upon a time a neighing steed,Who graz'd among a numerous breed,With mutiny had fired the train,And spread dissension through the plainOn matters that concern'd the state,The council met in grand debate.A colt whose eyeballs flamed with ire,Elate with strength and youthful fire,In haste stept forth before the rest,And thus the listening throng address'd.'Goodness, how abject is our race,Condemn'd to slavery and disgrace!Shall we our servitude retain,Because our sires have borne the chain?Consider, friends! your strength and might;'Tis conquest to assert your right.How cumbrous is the gilded coach!The pride of man is our reproach.Were we design'd for daily toil,To drag the ploughshare through the soil,To sweat in harness through the road,To groan beneath the carrier's load?How feeble are the two-legg'd kind!What force is in our nerves combin'd!Shall then our nobler jaws submitTo foam and champ the galling bit?Shall haughty man my back bestride?Shall the sharp spur provoke my side?Forbid it, heavens! reject the rein;Your shame, your infamy, disdain.Let him the lion first control,And still the tiger's famish'd growl.Let us, like them, our freedom claim,And make him tremble at our name.'A general nod approv'd the cause,And all the circle neigh'd applause.When, lo! with grave and solemn pace,A steed advanc'd before the race,With age and long experience wise;Around he cast his thoughtful eyes,And, to the murmurs of the train,Thus spoke the Nestor of the plain.'When I had health and strength like youThe toils of servitude I knew;Now grateful man rewards my pains,And gives me all these wide domains.At will I crop the year's increase;My latter life is rest and peace.I grant, to man we lend our pains,And aid him to correct the plains;But doth not he divide the care,Through all the labours of the year?How many thousand structures rise,To fence us from inclement skies!For us he bears the sultry day,And stores up all our winter's hay.He sows, he reaps the harvest's gain;We share the toil and share the grain.Since every creature was decreedTo aid each other's mutual need,Appease your discontented mind,And act the part by heaven assign'd.'The tumult ceas'd, the colt submitted,And, like his ancestors, was bitted.
J. Gay
One day, it matters not to knowHow many hundred years ago,A Frenchman stopt at an inn door:The Landlord came to welcome him and chatOf this and that,For he had seen the traveller there before.'Doth holy Romuald dwellStill in his cell?'The Traveller ask'd, 'or is the old man dead?''No; he has left his loving flock, and weSo great a Christian never more shall see,'The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head.'Ah, sir, we knew his worth!If ever there did live a saint on earth!Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirtFor thirty days, all seasons, day and night.Good man, he knew it was not rightFor Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt!And then he only hung it out in the rain,And put it on again.'There has been perilous workWith him and the Devil there in yonder cell;For Satan used to maul him like a Turk.There they would sometimes fight,All through a winter's night,From sunset until morn.He with a cross, the Devil with his horn;The Devil spitting fire with might and main,Enough to make St. Michael half afraid:He splashing holy water till he madeHis red hide hiss again,And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell.This was so common that his face becameAll black and yellow with the brimstone flame,And then he smelt.... O dear, how he did smell!'Then, sir, to see how he would mortifyThe flesh! If any one had dainty fare,Good man, he would come there,And look at all the delicate things, and cry,'O belly, belly,You would be gormandizing now, I know;But it shall not be so!Home to your bread and water, home, I tell ye!''But,' quoth the Traveller, 'wherefore did he leaveA flock that knew his saintly worth so well?''Why,' said the Landlord, 'Sir, it so befellHe heard unluckily of our intentTo do him a great honour; and you knowHe was not covetous of fame below,And so by stealth one night away he went.''What might this honour be?' the Traveller cried.'Why, sir,' the host replied,'We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us;And then should strangers haveThe good man's grave.A loss like that would naturally grieve us,For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure.Therefore we thought it prudent to secureHis relics while we might;And so we meant to strangle him one night.'
One day, it matters not to knowHow many hundred years ago,A Frenchman stopt at an inn door:The Landlord came to welcome him and chatOf this and that,For he had seen the traveller there before.'Doth holy Romuald dwellStill in his cell?'The Traveller ask'd, 'or is the old man dead?''No; he has left his loving flock, and weSo great a Christian never more shall see,'The Landlord answer'd, and he shook his head.'Ah, sir, we knew his worth!If ever there did live a saint on earth!Why, sir, he always used to wear a shirtFor thirty days, all seasons, day and night.Good man, he knew it was not rightFor Dust and Ashes to fall out with Dirt!And then he only hung it out in the rain,And put it on again.
'There has been perilous workWith him and the Devil there in yonder cell;For Satan used to maul him like a Turk.There they would sometimes fight,All through a winter's night,From sunset until morn.He with a cross, the Devil with his horn;The Devil spitting fire with might and main,Enough to make St. Michael half afraid:He splashing holy water till he madeHis red hide hiss again,And the hot vapour fill'd the smoking cell.This was so common that his face becameAll black and yellow with the brimstone flame,And then he smelt.... O dear, how he did smell!
'Then, sir, to see how he would mortifyThe flesh! If any one had dainty fare,Good man, he would come there,And look at all the delicate things, and cry,'O belly, belly,You would be gormandizing now, I know;But it shall not be so!Home to your bread and water, home, I tell ye!'
'But,' quoth the Traveller, 'wherefore did he leaveA flock that knew his saintly worth so well?''Why,' said the Landlord, 'Sir, it so befellHe heard unluckily of our intentTo do him a great honour; and you knowHe was not covetous of fame below,And so by stealth one night away he went.'
'What might this honour be?' the Traveller cried.'Why, sir,' the host replied,'We thought perhaps that he might one day leave us;And then should strangers haveThe good man's grave.A loss like that would naturally grieve us,For he'll be made a saint of, to be sure.Therefore we thought it prudent to secureHis relics while we might;And so we meant to strangle him one night.'
R. Southey
Lady Alice was sitting in her bower windowAt midnight mending her quoif;And there she saw as fine a corpseAs ever she saw in her life.'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?What bear ye on your shoulders?''We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,An old and true lover of yours.''Oh, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,All on the grass so green,And to-morrow when the sun goes down,Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.'And bury me in Saint Mary's church,All for my love so true;And make me a garland of marjoram,And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'Giles Collins was buried all in the east,Lady Alice all in the west;And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,They reached Lady Alice's breast.The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,And he severed those roses in twain.Sure never were seen such true lovers before,Nor e'er will there be again.
Lady Alice was sitting in her bower windowAt midnight mending her quoif;And there she saw as fine a corpseAs ever she saw in her life.
'What bear ye, what bear ye, ye six men tall?What bear ye on your shoulders?''We bear the corpse of Giles Collins,An old and true lover of yours.'
'Oh, lay him down gently, ye six men tall,All on the grass so green,And to-morrow when the sun goes down,Lady Alice a corpse shall be seen.
'And bury me in Saint Mary's church,All for my love so true;And make me a garland of marjoram,And of lemon-thyme, and rue.'
Giles Collins was buried all in the east,Lady Alice all in the west;And the roses that grew on Giles Collins's grave,They reached Lady Alice's breast.
The priest of the parish he chanced to pass,And he severed those roses in twain.Sure never were seen such true lovers before,Nor e'er will there be again.
Old Ballad
An outlandish knight came from the North lands,And he came a wooing to me;And he told me he'd take me unto the North lands,And there he would marry me.'Come, fetch me some of your father's gold,And some of your mother's fee;And two of the best nags out of the stable,Where they stand thirty and three.'She fetched him some of her father's goldAnd some of her mother's fee;And two of the best nags out of the stable,Where they stood thirty and three.She mounted her on her milk-white steed,He on the dapple grey;They rode till they came unto the sea-side,Three hours before it was day.'Light off, light off thy milk-white steed,And deliver it unto me;Six pretty maids have I drowned here,And thou the seventh shall be.'Pull off, pull off thy silken gown,And deliver it unto me,Methinks it looks too rich and too gayTo rot in the salt sea.'Pull off, pull off thy silken stays,And deliver them unto me!Methinks they are too fine and gayTo rot in the salt sea.''Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock,And deliver it unto me;Methinks it looks too rich and gayTo rot in the salt sea.''If I must pull off my Holland smock,Pray turn thy back unto me,For it is not fitting that such a ruffianA woman unclad should see.'He turned his back towards her,And viewed the leaves so green;She catch'd him round the middle so small,And tumbled him into the stream.He dropped high, and he dropped low,Until he came to the tide,—'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,And I will make you my bride.''Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,Lie there instead of me;Six pretty maidens have you drowned here,And the seventh has drowned thee.'She mounted on her milk-white steed,And led the dapple grey.She rode till she came to her father's hall,Three hours before it was day.
An outlandish knight came from the North lands,And he came a wooing to me;And he told me he'd take me unto the North lands,And there he would marry me.
'Come, fetch me some of your father's gold,And some of your mother's fee;And two of the best nags out of the stable,Where they stand thirty and three.'
She fetched him some of her father's goldAnd some of her mother's fee;And two of the best nags out of the stable,Where they stood thirty and three.
She mounted her on her milk-white steed,He on the dapple grey;They rode till they came unto the sea-side,Three hours before it was day.
'Light off, light off thy milk-white steed,And deliver it unto me;Six pretty maids have I drowned here,And thou the seventh shall be.
'Pull off, pull off thy silken gown,And deliver it unto me,Methinks it looks too rich and too gayTo rot in the salt sea.
'Pull off, pull off thy silken stays,And deliver them unto me!Methinks they are too fine and gayTo rot in the salt sea.'
'Pull off, pull off thy Holland smock,And deliver it unto me;Methinks it looks too rich and gayTo rot in the salt sea.'
'If I must pull off my Holland smock,Pray turn thy back unto me,For it is not fitting that such a ruffianA woman unclad should see.'
He turned his back towards her,And viewed the leaves so green;She catch'd him round the middle so small,And tumbled him into the stream.
He dropped high, and he dropped low,Until he came to the tide,—'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,And I will make you my bride.'
'Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,Lie there instead of me;Six pretty maidens have you drowned here,And the seventh has drowned thee.'
She mounted on her milk-white steed,And led the dapple grey.She rode till she came to her father's hall,Three hours before it was day.
Old Ballad
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!The palm and the may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.Spring, the sweet Spring.
Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring;Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!
The palm and the may make country houses gay,Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day,And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.
The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,In every street these tunes our ears do greet,Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.Spring, the sweet Spring.
T. Nash
There came a ghost to Margaret's door,With many a grievous groan,And aye he tirled at the pin,But answer made she none.'Is that my father Philip,Or is't my brother John?Or is't my true love Willy,From Scotland new come home?'''Tis not thy father Philip,Nor yet thy brother John;But 'tis thy true love Willy,From Scotland new come home.'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,I pray thee speak to me:Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,As I gave it to thee.''Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get,Nor yet wilt thou me win,Till that thou come within my bowerAnd kiss my cheek and chin.''If I should come within thy bower,I am no earthly man:And should I kiss thy rosy lipsThy days would not be lang.'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,I pray thee speak to me:Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,As I gave it to thee.''Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get,Nor yet wilt thou me win,Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,And wed me with a ring.''My bones are buried in yon kirk-yardAfar beyond the sea,And it is but my spirit, Margaret,That's now speaking to thee.'She stretched out her lily-white hand,And for to do her best:'Have there your faith and troth, Willy,God send your soul good rest.'Now she has kilted her robes of greenA piece below her knee;And all the live-long winter nightThe dead corpse followed she.'Is there any room at your head, Willy,Or any room at your feet?Or any room at your side, Willy,Wherein that I may creep?''There's no room at my head, Margaret,There's no room at my feet;There's no room at my side, Margaret,My coffin's made so meet.'Then up and crew the red red cock,And up then crew the grey;''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret,That you were going away.'
There came a ghost to Margaret's door,With many a grievous groan,And aye he tirled at the pin,But answer made she none.
'Is that my father Philip,Or is't my brother John?Or is't my true love Willy,From Scotland new come home?'
''Tis not thy father Philip,Nor yet thy brother John;But 'tis thy true love Willy,From Scotland new come home.
'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,I pray thee speak to me:Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,As I gave it to thee.'
'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get,Nor yet wilt thou me win,Till that thou come within my bowerAnd kiss my cheek and chin.'
'If I should come within thy bower,I am no earthly man:And should I kiss thy rosy lipsThy days would not be lang.
'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,I pray thee speak to me:Give me my faith and troth, Margaret,As I gave it to thee.'
'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get,Nor yet wilt thou me win,Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,And wed me with a ring.'
'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yardAfar beyond the sea,And it is but my spirit, Margaret,That's now speaking to thee.'
She stretched out her lily-white hand,And for to do her best:'Have there your faith and troth, Willy,God send your soul good rest.'
Now she has kilted her robes of greenA piece below her knee;And all the live-long winter nightThe dead corpse followed she.
'Is there any room at your head, Willy,Or any room at your feet?Or any room at your side, Willy,Wherein that I may creep?'
'There's no room at my head, Margaret,There's no room at my feet;There's no room at my side, Margaret,My coffin's made so meet.'
Then up and crew the red red cock,And up then crew the grey;''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret,That you were going away.'
Old Ballad
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 downwardMotion 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!
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 downwardMotion 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!
J. R. Lowell
When as King Henry ruled this landThe second of that name,Above all else, he dearly lovedA fair and comely dame.Her crisped locks like threads of goldAppear'd to each man's sight;Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearlsDid cast a heavenly light.The blood within her crystal cheeksDid such a colour drive,As though the lily and the roseFor mastership did strive.Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund,Her name was called so,To whom our queen, queen EllinorWas known a deadly foe.The king therefore, for her defenceAgainst the furious queen,At Woodstock builded such a bower,The like was never seen.Most curiously that bower was built,Of stone and timber strong,An hundred and fifty doorsDid to this bower belong.And they so cunningly contrived,With turnings round about,That none, but with a clue of thread,Could enter in and out.And for his love and lady's sake.That was so fair and bright,The keeping of this bower he gaveUnto a valiant knight.But fortune, that doth often frownWhere she before did smile,The king's delight and lady's joyFull soon she did beguile:For why? the king's ungracious son,Whom he did high advance,Against his father raised wars,Within the realm of France.But yet before our comely kingThe English land forsook,Of Rosamund, his lady fair,His farewell thus he took:'My Rosamund, my only rose,That pleaseth best mine eye:The fairest flower in all the worldTo feed my fantasy;'The flower of mine affected heart,Whose sweetness doth excelAll roses else a thousand times,I bid thee now farewell.'When Rosamund, that lady bright,Did hear the king say so,The sorrow of her grieved heartHer outward looks did show;And from her clear and crystal eyesThe tears gush'd out apace,Which like the silver pearled dewRan down her comely face.'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?The king did often say.'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody warsMy lord must part away.'But since your Grace on foreign coasts,Among your foes unkind,Must go to hazard life and limb,Why should I stay behind?'Nay, rather let me, like a page,Your sword and target bear,That on my breast the blows may light,Which would offend you there.'So I your presence may enjoyNo toil I will refuse;But wanting you, my life is death;Nay, death I'd rather choose!''Content thyself, my dearest love,Thy rest at home shall beIn England's sweet and pleasant isle;For travel fits not thee.My Rose shall safely here abide,With music pass the day;Whilst I, among the piercing pikes,My foes seek far away.And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trustTo be my love's defence;Be careful of my gallant RoseWhen I am parted hence.'And therewithal he fetch'd a sighAs though his heart would break:And Rosamund, for very grief,Not one plain word could speak.And at their parting well they mightIn heart be grieved sore:After that day fair RosamundThe king did see no more.For when his Grace had past the seas,And into France was gone,With envious heart queen EllinorTo Woodstock came anone.And forth she calls this trusty knightIn an unhappy hour;Who with his clue of twined threadCame from this famous bower.And when that they had wounded himThe queen this thread did get,And went, where lady RosamundWas like an angel set.But when the queen with steadfast eyeBeheld her beauteous face,She was amazed in her mindAt her exceeding grace.'Cast off from thee those robes,' she said,'That rich and costly be;And drink thou up this deadly draught,Which I have brought to thee.'Then presently upon her kneesSweet Rosamund did fell;And pardon of the queen she cravedFor her offences all.'Take pity on my youthful years,'Fair Rosamund did cry;'And let me not with poison strongEnforced be to die.'And with these words, her lily handsShe wrung full often there;And down along her lovely faceDid trickle many a tear.But nothing could this furious queenTherewith appeased be;The cup of deadly poison strong,As she knelt on her knee,She gave this comely dame to drink,Who took it in her hand,And from her bended knee arose,And on her feet did stand;And casting up her eyes to heavenShe did for mercy call;And drinking up the poison strong,Her life she lost withal.And when that death through every limbHad showed its greatest spite,Her chiefest foes did plain confessShe was a glorious wight.Her body then they did entomb,When life was fled away,At Godstowe, near to Oxford town,As may be seen this day.
When as King Henry ruled this landThe second of that name,Above all else, he dearly lovedA fair and comely dame.
Her crisped locks like threads of goldAppear'd to each man's sight;Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearlsDid cast a heavenly light.
The blood within her crystal cheeksDid such a colour drive,As though the lily and the roseFor mastership did strive.
Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund,Her name was called so,To whom our queen, queen EllinorWas known a deadly foe.
The king therefore, for her defenceAgainst the furious queen,At Woodstock builded such a bower,The like was never seen.
Most curiously that bower was built,Of stone and timber strong,An hundred and fifty doorsDid to this bower belong.
And they so cunningly contrived,With turnings round about,That none, but with a clue of thread,Could enter in and out.
And for his love and lady's sake.That was so fair and bright,The keeping of this bower he gaveUnto a valiant knight.
But fortune, that doth often frownWhere she before did smile,The king's delight and lady's joyFull soon she did beguile:
For why? the king's ungracious son,Whom he did high advance,Against his father raised wars,Within the realm of France.
But yet before our comely kingThe English land forsook,Of Rosamund, his lady fair,His farewell thus he took:
'My Rosamund, my only rose,That pleaseth best mine eye:The fairest flower in all the worldTo feed my fantasy;
'The flower of mine affected heart,Whose sweetness doth excelAll roses else a thousand times,I bid thee now farewell.'
When Rosamund, that lady bright,Did hear the king say so,The sorrow of her grieved heartHer outward looks did show;
And from her clear and crystal eyesThe tears gush'd out apace,Which like the silver pearled dewRan down her comely face.
'Why grieves my Rose, my sweetest Rose?The king did often say.'Because,' quoth she, 'to bloody warsMy lord must part away.
'But since your Grace on foreign coasts,Among your foes unkind,Must go to hazard life and limb,Why should I stay behind?
'Nay, rather let me, like a page,Your sword and target bear,That on my breast the blows may light,Which would offend you there.
'So I your presence may enjoyNo toil I will refuse;But wanting you, my life is death;Nay, death I'd rather choose!'
'Content thyself, my dearest love,Thy rest at home shall beIn England's sweet and pleasant isle;For travel fits not thee.
My Rose shall safely here abide,With music pass the day;Whilst I, among the piercing pikes,My foes seek far away.
And you, Sir Thomas, whom I trustTo be my love's defence;Be careful of my gallant RoseWhen I am parted hence.'
And therewithal he fetch'd a sighAs though his heart would break:And Rosamund, for very grief,Not one plain word could speak.
And at their parting well they mightIn heart be grieved sore:After that day fair RosamundThe king did see no more.
For when his Grace had past the seas,And into France was gone,With envious heart queen EllinorTo Woodstock came anone.
And forth she calls this trusty knightIn an unhappy hour;Who with his clue of twined threadCame from this famous bower.
And when that they had wounded himThe queen this thread did get,And went, where lady RosamundWas like an angel set.
But when the queen with steadfast eyeBeheld her beauteous face,She was amazed in her mindAt her exceeding grace.
'Cast off from thee those robes,' she said,'That rich and costly be;And drink thou up this deadly draught,Which I have brought to thee.'
Then presently upon her kneesSweet Rosamund did fell;And pardon of the queen she cravedFor her offences all.
'Take pity on my youthful years,'Fair Rosamund did cry;'And let me not with poison strongEnforced be to die.'
And with these words, her lily handsShe wrung full often there;And down along her lovely faceDid trickle many a tear.
But nothing could this furious queenTherewith appeased be;The cup of deadly poison strong,As she knelt on her knee,
She gave this comely dame to drink,Who took it in her hand,And from her bended knee arose,And on her feet did stand;
And casting up her eyes to heavenShe did for mercy call;And drinking up the poison strong,Her life she lost withal.
And when that death through every limbHad showed its greatest spite,Her chiefest foes did plain confessShe was a glorious wight.
Her body then they did entomb,When life was fled away,At Godstowe, near to Oxford town,As may be seen this day.
T. Delone