Remember us poor Mayers all!And thus we do beginTo lead our lives in righteousness,Or else we die in sin.We have been rambling all the night,And almost all the day;And now returned back again,We have brought you a branch of May.A branch of May we have brought you,And at your door it stands;It is but a sprout, but it's well budded outBy the work of our Lord's hands.The hedges and trees they are so green,As green as any leek;Our heavenly Father He water'd themWith His heavenly dew so sweet.The heavenly gates are open wide,Our paths are beaten plain;And if a man be not too far gone,He may return again.The life of man is but a span,It flourishes like a flower;We are here to-day and gone to-morrow,And we are dead in an hour.The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,A little before it is day:So God bless you all, both great and small,And send you a joyful May!
Remember us poor Mayers all!And thus we do beginTo lead our lives in righteousness,Or else we die in sin.
We have been rambling all the night,And almost all the day;And now returned back again,We have brought you a branch of May.
A branch of May we have brought you,And at your door it stands;It is but a sprout, but it's well budded outBy the work of our Lord's hands.
The hedges and trees they are so green,As green as any leek;Our heavenly Father He water'd themWith His heavenly dew so sweet.
The heavenly gates are open wide,Our paths are beaten plain;And if a man be not too far gone,He may return again.
The life of man is but a span,It flourishes like a flower;We are here to-day and gone to-morrow,And we are dead in an hour.
The moon shines bright, and the stars give a light,A little before it is day:So God bless you all, both great and small,And send you a joyful May!
Old Song
Will you hear a Spanish ladyHow she woo'd an English man?Garments gay and rich as may be,Decked with jewels, had she on;Of a comely countenance and grace was she,And by birth and parentage of high degree.As his prisoner there he kept her,In his hands her life did lie;Cupid's bands did tie her faster,By the liking of an eye;In his courteous company was all her joy,To favour him in any thing she was not coy.At the last there came commandmentFor to set the ladies free,With their jewels still adorned,None to do them injury:'Alas!' then said this lady gay, 'full woe is me;O let me still sustain this kind captivity!'O gallant captain, show some pityTo a lady in-distress;Leave me not within the city,For to die in heaviness;Thou hast set this present day my body free,But my heart in prison strong remains with thee.''How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,Whom thou know'st thy country's foe?Thy fair words make me suspect thee;Serpents are where flowers grow.''All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight,God grant unto myself the same may fully light:'Blessed be the time and seasonThat you came on Spanish ground;If you may our foes be termed,Gentle foes we have you found.With our city you have won our hearts each one;Then to your country bear away that is your own.''Rest you still, most gallant lady,Rest you still, and weep no more;Of fair lovers there are plenty;Spain doth yield a wondrous store.''Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,But English men throughout the world are counted kind.'Leave me not unto a Spaniard;You alone enjoy my heart;I am lovely, young, and tender,And so love is my desert.Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd;The wife of every English man is counted blest.''It would be a shame, fair lady,For to bear a woman hence;English soldiers never carryAny such without offence.''I will quickly change myself if it be so,And like a page I'll follow thee where'er thou go.''I have neither gold nor silverTo maintain thee in this case,And to travel, 'tis great charges,As you know, in every place.''My chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own,And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.''On the seas are many dangers;Many storms do there arise,Which will be to ladies dreadful,And force tears from watery eyes.''Well in truth I shall endure extremity,For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.''Courteous lady, be contented;Here comes all that breeds the strife;I in England have alreadyA sweet woman to my wife:I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain,Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.''Oh how happy is that woman,That enjoys so true a friend!Many days of joy God send you!Of my suit I'll make an end:On my knees I pardon crave for this offence,Which did from love and true affection first commence.'Commend me to thy loving lady;Bear to her this chain of gold,And these bracelets for a token;Grieving that I was so bold.All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee,For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.''I will spend my days in prayer,Love and all her laws defy,In a nunnery will I shroud me,Far from any company:But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.'Thus farewell, most gentle captain,And farewell my heart's content!Count not Spanish ladies wayward,Though to thee my love was bent:Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!''The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.'
Will you hear a Spanish ladyHow she woo'd an English man?Garments gay and rich as may be,Decked with jewels, had she on;Of a comely countenance and grace was she,And by birth and parentage of high degree.
As his prisoner there he kept her,In his hands her life did lie;Cupid's bands did tie her faster,By the liking of an eye;In his courteous company was all her joy,To favour him in any thing she was not coy.
At the last there came commandmentFor to set the ladies free,With their jewels still adorned,None to do them injury:'Alas!' then said this lady gay, 'full woe is me;O let me still sustain this kind captivity!
'O gallant captain, show some pityTo a lady in-distress;Leave me not within the city,For to die in heaviness;Thou hast set this present day my body free,But my heart in prison strong remains with thee.'
'How should'st thou, fair lady, love me,Whom thou know'st thy country's foe?Thy fair words make me suspect thee;Serpents are where flowers grow.''All the evil I think to thee, most gracious knight,God grant unto myself the same may fully light:
'Blessed be the time and seasonThat you came on Spanish ground;If you may our foes be termed,Gentle foes we have you found.With our city you have won our hearts each one;Then to your country bear away that is your own.'
'Rest you still, most gallant lady,Rest you still, and weep no more;Of fair lovers there are plenty;Spain doth yield a wondrous store.''Spaniards fraught with jealousy we often find,But English men throughout the world are counted kind.
'Leave me not unto a Spaniard;You alone enjoy my heart;I am lovely, young, and tender,And so love is my desert.Still to serve thee day and night my mind is press'd;The wife of every English man is counted blest.'
'It would be a shame, fair lady,For to bear a woman hence;English soldiers never carryAny such without offence.''I will quickly change myself if it be so,And like a page I'll follow thee where'er thou go.'
'I have neither gold nor silverTo maintain thee in this case,And to travel, 'tis great charges,As you know, in every place.''My chains and jewels everyone shall be thine own,And eke five hundred pounds in gold that lies unknown.'
'On the seas are many dangers;Many storms do there arise,Which will be to ladies dreadful,And force tears from watery eyes.''Well in truth I shall endure extremity,For I could find in heart to lose my life for thee.'
'Courteous lady, be contented;Here comes all that breeds the strife;I in England have alreadyA sweet woman to my wife:I will not falsify my vow for gold or gain,Nor yet for all the fairest dames that live in Spain.'
'Oh how happy is that woman,That enjoys so true a friend!Many days of joy God send you!Of my suit I'll make an end:On my knees I pardon crave for this offence,Which did from love and true affection first commence.
'Commend me to thy loving lady;Bear to her this chain of gold,And these bracelets for a token;Grieving that I was so bold.All my jewels in like sort bear thou with thee,For they are fitting for thy wife, but not for me.'
'I will spend my days in prayer,Love and all her laws defy,In a nunnery will I shroud me,Far from any company:But ere my prayers have an end, be sure of this,To pray for thee and for thy love I will not miss.
'Thus farewell, most gentle captain,And farewell my heart's content!Count not Spanish ladies wayward,Though to thee my love was bent:Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!''The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady.'
Old Ballad
Little white LilySat by a stone,Drooping and waitingTill the sun shone.Little white LilySunshine has fed;Little white LilyIs lifting her head.Little white LilySaid, 'It is good;Little white Lily'sClothing and food.'Little white Lily,Drest like a bride!Shining with whiteness,And crown'd beside!Little white LilyDroopeth with pain,Waiting and waitingFor the wet rain.Little white LilyHoldeth her cup;Rain is fast fallingAnd filling it up.Little white LilySaid, 'Good again,When I am thirstyTo have nice rain;Now I am stronger,Now I am cool;Heat cannot burn me,My veins are so full.'Little white LilySmells very sweet:On her head sunshine,Rain at her feet.'Thanks to the sunshine,Thanks to the rain!Little white LilyIs happy again!
Little white LilySat by a stone,Drooping and waitingTill the sun shone.Little white LilySunshine has fed;Little white LilyIs lifting her head.
Little white LilySaid, 'It is good;Little white Lily'sClothing and food.'Little white Lily,Drest like a bride!Shining with whiteness,And crown'd beside!
Little white LilyDroopeth with pain,Waiting and waitingFor the wet rain.Little white LilyHoldeth her cup;Rain is fast fallingAnd filling it up.
Little white LilySaid, 'Good again,When I am thirstyTo have nice rain;Now I am stronger,Now I am cool;Heat cannot burn me,My veins are so full.'
Little white LilySmells very sweet:On her head sunshine,Rain at her feet.'Thanks to the sunshine,Thanks to the rain!Little white LilyIs happy again!
G. MacDonald
O sing unto my roundelay;O drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holiday;Like a running river be;My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,Quick in dance as thought can be;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O, he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier'd dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the night-mares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.See, the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true love's shroud;Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
O sing unto my roundelay;O drop the briny tear with me;Dance no more at holiday;Like a running river be;My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Black his hair as the winter night,White his neck as summer snow,Ruddy his face as the morning light,Cold he lies in the grave below.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,Quick in dance as thought can be;Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;O, he lies by the willow-tree!My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
Hark! the raven flaps his wingIn the brier'd dell below;Hark! the death-owl loud doth singTo the night-mares as they go.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
See, the white moon shines on high;Whiter is my true love's shroud;Whiter than the morning sky,Whiter than the evening cloud.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the willow-tree.
T. Chatterton
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,It cannot hold you long.In Islington there was a man,Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ranWhene'er he went to pray.A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every christian eye:And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied,The man recover'd of the bite,The dog it was that died.
Good people all, of every sort,Give ear unto my song;And if you find it wondrous short,It cannot hold you long.
In Islington there was a man,Of whom the world might say,That still a godly race he ranWhene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,To comfort friends and foes;The naked every day he clad,When he put on his clothes.
And in that town a dog was found,As many dogs there be,Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,And curs of low degree.
This dog and man at first were friends;But when a pique began,The dog, to gain his private ends,Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighbouring streetsThe wondering neighbours ran,And swore the dog had lost his wits,To bite so good a man.
The wound it seem'd both sore and sadTo every christian eye:And while they swore the dog was mad,They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,That show'd the rogues they lied,The man recover'd of the bite,The dog it was that died.
O. Goldsmith
John Bull for pastime took a prance,Some time ago, to peep at France;To talk of sciences and arts,And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,And answer'd John in heathen Greek:To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,'Twas, 'Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.'John, to the Palais-Royal come,Its splendour almost struck him dumb.'I say, whose house is that there here?''House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John;'This fellow is some mighty Don:No doubt he's plenty for the maw,I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.'John saw Versailles from Marli's height,And cried, astonish'd at the sight,'Whose fine estate is that there here?''State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''His? what, the land and houses too?The fellow's richer than a Jew:On everything he lays his claw!I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw.'Next tripping came a courtly fair,John cried, enchanted with her air,'What lovely wench is that there here?''Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''What, he again? Upon my life!A palace, lands, and then a wifeSir Joshua might delight to draw:I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.'But hold! whose funeral's that?' cries John.'Je vous n'entends pas.'—'What, is he gone?Wealth, fame, and beauty could not savePoor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!His race is run, his game is up,—I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;But since he chooses to withdraw,Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!'
John Bull for pastime took a prance,Some time ago, to peep at France;To talk of sciences and arts,And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,And answer'd John in heathen Greek:To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,'Twas, 'Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.'
John, to the Palais-Royal come,Its splendour almost struck him dumb.'I say, whose house is that there here?''House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John;'This fellow is some mighty Don:No doubt he's plenty for the maw,I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.'
John saw Versailles from Marli's height,And cried, astonish'd at the sight,'Whose fine estate is that there here?''State! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''His? what, the land and houses too?The fellow's richer than a Jew:On everything he lays his claw!I should like to dine with Nongtongpaw.'
Next tripping came a courtly fair,John cried, enchanted with her air,'What lovely wench is that there here?''Ventch! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.''What, he again? Upon my life!A palace, lands, and then a wifeSir Joshua might delight to draw:I should like to sup with Nongtongpaw.
'But hold! whose funeral's that?' cries John.'Je vous n'entends pas.'—'What, is he gone?Wealth, fame, and beauty could not savePoor Nongtongpaw then from the grave!His race is run, his game is up,—I'd with him breakfast, dine and sup;But since he chooses to withdraw,Good night t' ye, Mounseer Nongtongpaw!'
C. Dibdin
On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away:And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure,And he constantly loved me although I was poor;When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he lick'd me for kindness—my old dog Tray.Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.
On the green banks of Shannon when Sheelah was nigh,No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;No harp like my own could so cheerily play,And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,)Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far away:And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray.
Poor dog! he was faithful and kind to be sure,And he constantly loved me although I was poor;When the sour-looking folk sent me heartless away,I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.
When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,And he lick'd me for kindness—my old dog Tray.
Though my wallet was scant I remember'd his case,Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?To my sweet native village, so far, far away,I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.
T. Campbell
The greenhouse is my summer seat;My shrubs, displaced from that retreat,Enjoy'd the open air;Two goldfinches whose sprightly songHad been their mutual solace long,Lived happy prisoners there.They sang as blithe as finches singThat flutter loose on golden wing,And frolic where they list;Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,But that delight they never knew,And therefore never miss'd.But nature works in every breast,With force not easily suppress'd;And Dick felt some desires,That, after many an effort vain,Instructed him at length to gainA pass between the wires.The open windows seem'd to inviteThe freeman to a farewell flight;But Tom was still confin'd;And Dick, although his way was clear,Was much too generous and sincereTo leave his friend behind.So, settling on his cage, by play,And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,You must not live alone—Nor would he quit that chosen stand,Till I, with slow and cautious hand,Return'd him to his own.
The greenhouse is my summer seat;My shrubs, displaced from that retreat,Enjoy'd the open air;Two goldfinches whose sprightly songHad been their mutual solace long,Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches singThat flutter loose on golden wing,And frolic where they list;Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,But that delight they never knew,And therefore never miss'd.
But nature works in every breast,With force not easily suppress'd;And Dick felt some desires,That, after many an effort vain,Instructed him at length to gainA pass between the wires.
The open windows seem'd to inviteThe freeman to a farewell flight;But Tom was still confin'd;And Dick, although his way was clear,Was much too generous and sincereTo leave his friend behind.
So, settling on his cage, by play,And chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,You must not live alone—Nor would he quit that chosen stand,Till I, with slow and cautious hand,Return'd him to his own.
W. Cowper
A chieftain to the Highlands boundCries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry.''Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter.'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.'His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?'Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:'And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry:So though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry.'By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of Heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armed men,Their trampling sounded nearer.'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'The boat has left the stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human handThe tempest gathered o'er her.And still they row'd amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore;His wrath was changed to wailing.For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shadeHis child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,And one was round her lover.'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief'Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter! oh, my daughter!''Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,Return or aid preventing;The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
A chieftain to the Highlands boundCries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry.'
'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together,For should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?'
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready;It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:
'And by my word! the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry:So though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of Heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armed men,Their trampling sounded nearer.
'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'
The boat has left the stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human handThe tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing:Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore;His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shadeHis child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,And one was round her lover.
'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief'Across this stormy water:And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter! oh, my daughter!'
'Twas vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore,Return or aid preventing;The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
T. Campbell
To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er,The wanton water leaps in sport,And rattles down the pebbly shore,The dolphin wheels, the sea cows snort,And unseen mermaid's pearly songComes bubbling up, the weeds among.Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er.To sea! to sea! our white winged barkShall billowing cleave its watery way,And with its shadow, fleet and dark,Break the caved Tritons' azure day,Like mountain eagle soaring lightO'er antelopes on Alpine height.The anchor heaves! The ship swings free!Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea!
To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er,The wanton water leaps in sport,And rattles down the pebbly shore,The dolphin wheels, the sea cows snort,And unseen mermaid's pearly songComes bubbling up, the weeds among.Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:To sea! to sea! the calm is o'er.
To sea! to sea! our white winged barkShall billowing cleave its watery way,And with its shadow, fleet and dark,Break the caved Tritons' azure day,Like mountain eagle soaring lightO'er antelopes on Alpine height.The anchor heaves! The ship swings free!Our sails swell full! To sea! to sea!
T. L. Beddoes
A barking sound the shepherd hears,A cry as of a dog or fox;He halts, and searches with his eyeAmong the scattered rocks:And now at distance can discernA stirring in a brake of fern;And instantly a dog is seen,Glancing through that covert green.The dog is not of mountain breed;Its motions, too, are wild and shy;With something, as the shepherd thinks,Unusual in its cry:Nor is there any one in sightAll round, in hollow or on height;Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear:What is the creature doing here?It was a cove, a huge recess,That keeps, till June, December's snow;A lofty precipice in front,A silent tarn below;Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,Remote from public road or dwelling,Pathway, or cultivated land;From trace of human foot or hand.There sometimes doth a leaping fishSend through the tarn a lonely cheer;The crags repeat the raven's croak,In symphony austere;Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud—And mists that spread the flying shroud,And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,That if it could would hurry past;But that enormous barrier holds it fast.Not free from boding thoughts, awhileThe shepherd stood; then makes his wayO'er rocks and stones, following the dogAs quickly as he may;Nor far had gone before he foundA human skeleton on the ground:The appalled discoverer with a sighLooks round to learn the history.From those abrupt and perilous rocksThe man had fallen, that place of fear!At length upon the shepherd's mindIt breaks, and all is clear:He instantly recalled the name,And who he was, and whence he came;Remembered too the very dayOn which the traveller passed that way.But hear a wonder for whose sakeThis lamentable tale I tell!A lasting monument of wordsThis wonder merits well.The dog, which still was hovering nigh,Repeating the same timid cry,This dog had been through three months' spaceA dweller in that savage place.Yes, proof was plain that since the dayWhen this ill-fated traveller died,The dog had watch'd about the spot,Or by his master's side:How nourished there through that long time,He knows who gave that love sublime;And gave that strength of feeling great,Above all human estimate.
A barking sound the shepherd hears,A cry as of a dog or fox;He halts, and searches with his eyeAmong the scattered rocks:And now at distance can discernA stirring in a brake of fern;And instantly a dog is seen,Glancing through that covert green.
The dog is not of mountain breed;Its motions, too, are wild and shy;With something, as the shepherd thinks,Unusual in its cry:Nor is there any one in sightAll round, in hollow or on height;Nor shout, nor whistle strikes his ear:What is the creature doing here?
It was a cove, a huge recess,That keeps, till June, December's snow;A lofty precipice in front,A silent tarn below;Far in the bosom of Helvellyn,Remote from public road or dwelling,Pathway, or cultivated land;From trace of human foot or hand.
There sometimes doth a leaping fishSend through the tarn a lonely cheer;The crags repeat the raven's croak,In symphony austere;Thither the rainbow comes, the cloud—And mists that spread the flying shroud,And sunbeams; and the sounding blast,That if it could would hurry past;But that enormous barrier holds it fast.
Not free from boding thoughts, awhileThe shepherd stood; then makes his wayO'er rocks and stones, following the dogAs quickly as he may;Nor far had gone before he foundA human skeleton on the ground:The appalled discoverer with a sighLooks round to learn the history.
From those abrupt and perilous rocksThe man had fallen, that place of fear!At length upon the shepherd's mindIt breaks, and all is clear:He instantly recalled the name,And who he was, and whence he came;Remembered too the very dayOn which the traveller passed that way.
But hear a wonder for whose sakeThis lamentable tale I tell!A lasting monument of wordsThis wonder merits well.The dog, which still was hovering nigh,Repeating the same timid cry,This dog had been through three months' spaceA dweller in that savage place.
Yes, proof was plain that since the dayWhen this ill-fated traveller died,The dog had watch'd about the spot,Or by his master's side:How nourished there through that long time,He knows who gave that love sublime;And gave that strength of feeling great,Above all human estimate.
W. Wordsworth
The fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day,With moral discourses cut shorter the way:''Tis great,' says the Fox, 'to make justice our guide!''How god-like is mercy!' Grimalkin replied.Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood,Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep—And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep.'In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat,When mutton's at hand,' says the wolf, 'I must eat.'Grimalkin's astonish'd!—the fox stood aghast,To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.'What a wretch,' says the cat, ''tis the vilest of brutes;Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots?'Cries the fox, 'While our oaks give us acorns so good,What a tyrant is this to spill innocent blood!'Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still,Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill.Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes,And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize.A mouse, too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray,The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey.A spider that sat in her web on the wall,Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pitied their fall;She cried, 'Of such murders, how guiltless am I!'So ran to regale on a new-taken fly.
The fox and the cat, as they travell'd one day,With moral discourses cut shorter the way:''Tis great,' says the Fox, 'to make justice our guide!''How god-like is mercy!' Grimalkin replied.Whilst thus they proceeded, a wolf from the wood,Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood,Rush'd forth—as he saw the dull shepherd asleep—And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep.'In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat,When mutton's at hand,' says the wolf, 'I must eat.'Grimalkin's astonish'd!—the fox stood aghast,To see the fell beast at his bloody repast.'What a wretch,' says the cat, ''tis the vilest of brutes;Does he feed upon flesh when there's herbage and roots?'Cries the fox, 'While our oaks give us acorns so good,What a tyrant is this to spill innocent blood!'Well, onward they march'd, and they moraliz'd still,Till they came where some poultry pick'd chaff by a mill.Sly Reynard survey'd them with gluttonous eyes,And made, spite of morals, a pullet his prize.A mouse, too, that chanc'd from her covert to stray,The greedy Grimalkin secured as her prey.A spider that sat in her web on the wall,Perceiv'd the poor victims, and pitied their fall;She cried, 'Of such murders, how guiltless am I!'So ran to regale on a new-taken fly.
J. Cunningham
The noon was shady, and soft airsSwept Ouse's silent tide,When, 'scaped from literary cares,I wander'd on his side.My spaniel, prettiest of his race,And high in pedigree,—(Two nymphs adorn'd with every graceThat spaniel found for me,)Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,Now starting into sight,Pursued the swallow o'er the meadsWith scarce a slower flight.It was the time when Ouse display'dHis lilies newly blown;Their beauties I intent survey'd,And one I wish'd my own.With cane extended far I soughtTo steer it close to land;But still the prize, though nearly caught,Escaped my eager hand.Beaumark'd my unsuccessful painsWith fix'd considerate face,And puzzling set his puppy brainsTo comprehend the case.But, with a chirrup clear and strong,Dispersing all his dream,I thence withdrew, and follow'd longThe windings of the stream.My ramble ended, I return'd;Beautrotted far before,The floating wreath again discern'd,And plunging, left the shore.I saw him with that lily cropp'd,Impatient swim to meetMy quick approach, and soon he dropp'dThe treasure at my feet.Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,'Shall hear of this thy deed;My dog shall mortify the prideOf man's superior breed;'But chief myself I will enjoin,Awake at duty's call,To show a love as prompt as thineTo Him who gives me all.'
The noon was shady, and soft airsSwept Ouse's silent tide,When, 'scaped from literary cares,I wander'd on his side.
My spaniel, prettiest of his race,And high in pedigree,—(Two nymphs adorn'd with every graceThat spaniel found for me,)
Now wanton'd lost in flags and reeds,Now starting into sight,Pursued the swallow o'er the meadsWith scarce a slower flight.
It was the time when Ouse display'dHis lilies newly blown;Their beauties I intent survey'd,And one I wish'd my own.
With cane extended far I soughtTo steer it close to land;But still the prize, though nearly caught,Escaped my eager hand.
Beaumark'd my unsuccessful painsWith fix'd considerate face,And puzzling set his puppy brainsTo comprehend the case.
But, with a chirrup clear and strong,Dispersing all his dream,I thence withdrew, and follow'd longThe windings of the stream.
My ramble ended, I return'd;Beautrotted far before,The floating wreath again discern'd,And plunging, left the shore.
I saw him with that lily cropp'd,Impatient swim to meetMy quick approach, and soon he dropp'dThe treasure at my feet.
Charm'd with the sight, 'The world,' I cried,'Shall hear of this thy deed;My dog shall mortify the prideOf man's superior breed;
'But chief myself I will enjoin,Awake at duty's call,To show a love as prompt as thineTo Him who gives me all.'
W. Cowper
Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said,When piping winds are hush'd around,A small note wakes from underground,Where now his tiny bones are laid.No more in lone or leafless groves,With ruffled wing and faded breast,His friendless, homeless spirit roves;Gone to the world where birds are blest!Where never cat glides o'er the green,Or school-boy's giant form is seen;But love, and joy, and smiling SpringInspire their little souls to sing!
Tread lightly here, for here, 'tis said,When piping winds are hush'd around,A small note wakes from underground,Where now his tiny bones are laid.No more in lone or leafless groves,With ruffled wing and faded breast,His friendless, homeless spirit roves;Gone to the world where birds are blest!Where never cat glides o'er the green,Or school-boy's giant form is seen;But love, and joy, and smiling SpringInspire their little souls to sing!
S. Rogers
In ancient times, as story tells,The saints would often leave their cells,And stroll about, but hide their quality,To try good people's hospitality.It happen'd on a winter night,As authors of the legend write,Two brother hermits, saints by trade,Taking their tour in masquerade,Disguis'd in tatter'd habits wentTo a small village down in Kent;Where, in the stroller's canting strain,They begg'd from door to door in vain,Tried every tone might pity win;But not a soul would take them in.Our wandering saints, in woful state,Treated at this ungodly rate,Having through all the village past,To a small cottage came at lastWhere dwelt a good old honest yeomanCall'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;Who kindly did these saints inviteIn his poor hut to pass the night;And then the hospitable sireBid goody Baucis mend the fire;While he from out the chimney tookA flitch of bacon off the hook,And freely from the fattest sideCut out large slices to be fried;Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drinkFill'd a large jug up to the brink,And saw it fairly twice go round;Yet (what is wonderful!) they found'Twas still replenish'd to the top,As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.The good old couple were amaz'd,And often on each other gaz'd;For both were frightened to the heart,And just began to cry, 'What ar't!'Then softly turn'd aside to viewWhether the lights were burning blue.'Good folks, you need not be afraid,We are but saints,' the hermits said;'No hurt shall come to you or yours:But for that pack of churlish boors,Not fit to live on Christian ground,They and their houses shall be drown'd;Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,And grow a church before your eyes.'They scarce had spoke when fair and softThe roof began to mount aloft,Aloft rose every beam and rafter,The heavy wall climb'd slowly after;The chimney widen'd and grew higher.Became a steeple with a spire.The kettle to the top was hoist,And there stood fasten'd to a joist;Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.A wooden jack which had almostLost by disuse the art to roast,A sudden alteration feels,Increas'd by new intestine wheels;The jack and chimney, near allied,Had never left each other's side:The chimney to a steeple grown,The jack would not be left alone;But up against the steeple rear'd,Became a clock, and still adhered.The groaning chair began to crawl,Like a huge snail, along the wall;There stuck aloft in public view,And with small change a pulpit grew.The cottage, by such feats as these,Grown to a church by just degrees,The hermits then desired the hostTo ask for what he fancied most.Philemon, having paus'd awhile,Return'd them thanks in homely style:'I'm old, and fain would live at ease;Make me the parson, if you please.'Thus happy in their change of lifeWere several years this man and wife.When on a day, which prov'd their last,Discoursing on old stories past,They went by chance, amidst their talk,To the churchyard to take a walk;When Baucis hastily cried out,'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!''Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell us?I hope you don't believe me jealous!But yet, methinks, I feel it true;And really yours is budding too—Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot;It feels as if 'twere taking root.'Description would but tire my muse;In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
In ancient times, as story tells,The saints would often leave their cells,And stroll about, but hide their quality,To try good people's hospitality.It happen'd on a winter night,As authors of the legend write,Two brother hermits, saints by trade,Taking their tour in masquerade,Disguis'd in tatter'd habits wentTo a small village down in Kent;Where, in the stroller's canting strain,They begg'd from door to door in vain,Tried every tone might pity win;But not a soul would take them in.Our wandering saints, in woful state,Treated at this ungodly rate,Having through all the village past,To a small cottage came at lastWhere dwelt a good old honest yeomanCall'd in the neighbourhood Philemon;Who kindly did these saints inviteIn his poor hut to pass the night;And then the hospitable sireBid goody Baucis mend the fire;While he from out the chimney tookA flitch of bacon off the hook,And freely from the fattest sideCut out large slices to be fried;Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drinkFill'd a large jug up to the brink,And saw it fairly twice go round;Yet (what is wonderful!) they found'Twas still replenish'd to the top,As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.The good old couple were amaz'd,And often on each other gaz'd;For both were frightened to the heart,And just began to cry, 'What ar't!'Then softly turn'd aside to viewWhether the lights were burning blue.'Good folks, you need not be afraid,We are but saints,' the hermits said;'No hurt shall come to you or yours:But for that pack of churlish boors,Not fit to live on Christian ground,They and their houses shall be drown'd;Whilst you shall see your cottage rise,And grow a church before your eyes.'They scarce had spoke when fair and softThe roof began to mount aloft,Aloft rose every beam and rafter,The heavy wall climb'd slowly after;The chimney widen'd and grew higher.Became a steeple with a spire.The kettle to the top was hoist,And there stood fasten'd to a joist;Doom'd ever in suspense to dwell,'Tis now no kettle, but a bell.A wooden jack which had almostLost by disuse the art to roast,A sudden alteration feels,Increas'd by new intestine wheels;The jack and chimney, near allied,Had never left each other's side:The chimney to a steeple grown,The jack would not be left alone;But up against the steeple rear'd,Became a clock, and still adhered.The groaning chair began to crawl,Like a huge snail, along the wall;There stuck aloft in public view,And with small change a pulpit grew.The cottage, by such feats as these,Grown to a church by just degrees,The hermits then desired the hostTo ask for what he fancied most.Philemon, having paus'd awhile,Return'd them thanks in homely style:'I'm old, and fain would live at ease;Make me the parson, if you please.'Thus happy in their change of lifeWere several years this man and wife.When on a day, which prov'd their last,Discoursing on old stories past,They went by chance, amidst their talk,To the churchyard to take a walk;When Baucis hastily cried out,'My dear, I see your forehead sprout!''Sprout!' quoth the man; 'what's this you tell us?I hope you don't believe me jealous!But yet, methinks, I feel it true;And really yours is budding too—Nay,—now I cannot stir my foot;It feels as if 'twere taking root.'Description would but tire my muse;In short, they both were turn'd to yews.
J. Swift
First Fairy
You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.
You spotted snakes with double tongue,Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen;Newts, and blind-worms, do no wrong;Come not near our fairy queen.
Chorus