XX

'O, where have ye been, Lord Randal, my son?O, where have ye been, my handsome young man?''I have been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.''Where got ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?Where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man?''I dined with my love; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.''What got ye to dinner, Lord Randal, my son?What got ye to dinner, my handsome young man?''I got eels boil'd in broth; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.''And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?''O, they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.''O, I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son!O, I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!''O, yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.'

'O, where have ye been, Lord Randal, my son?O, where have ye been, my handsome young man?''I have been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'Where got ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?Where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man?''I dined with my love; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'What got ye to dinner, Lord Randal, my son?What got ye to dinner, my handsome young man?''I got eels boil'd in broth; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?''O, they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'O, I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son!O, I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!''O, yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon,For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.'

Old Ballad

There was three kings into the East,Three kings both great and high,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.They took a plough and ploughed him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oath,John Barleycorn was dead.But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And showers began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surprised them all.The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head well armed wi' pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.The sober autumn entered mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow'd he began to fall.His colour sickened more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;And tied him fast upon the cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell'd him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn'd him o'er and o'er.They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.They laid him out upon the floor,To work him further woe,And still, as signs of life appear'd,They toss'd him to and fro.They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller used him worst of all,For he crush'd him between two stones.And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,'Twill make your courage rise.Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe'er fail in old Scotland!

There was three kings into the East,Three kings both great and high,And they hae sworn a solemn oathJohn Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,Put clods upon his head,And they hae sworn a solemn oath,John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,And showers began to fall;John Barleycorn got up again,And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,And he grew thick and strong,His head well armed wi' pointed spears,That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,When he grew wan and pale;His bending joints and drooping headShow'd he began to fall.

His colour sickened more and more,He faded into age;And then his enemies beganTo show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,And cut him by the knee;And tied him fast upon the cart,Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,And cudgell'd him full sore;They hung him up before the storm,And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pitWith water to the brim,They heaved in John Barleycorn,There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,To work him further woe,And still, as signs of life appear'd,They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,The marrow of his bones;But a miller used him worst of all,For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood,And drank it round and round;And still the more and more they drank,Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,Of noble enterprise;For if you do but taste his blood,'Twill make your courage rise.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,Each man a glass in hand;And may his great posterityNe'er fail in old Scotland!

Old Ballad

Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms,In her house with the trees overhead,For her husband was out in the night and the storms,In his business a-toiling for bread;And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar,Did grieve to think he was all night out of door.And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child(Under the lofty elm-tree),That a prettier never did babble and smileUp a-top of a proud mother's knee;And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and callHim her darling, and life, and her hope and her all.But she found in the evening the child was not well(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And she felt she could give all the world for to tellOf a truth what his ailing could be;And she thought on him last in her prayers at night,And she look'd at him last as she put out the light.And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight,And she rock'd him so sorrowfully;And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay,Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away.And the moon was a-shining down into the place(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And his mother could see that his lips and his faceWere as white as clean ashes could be;And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swellTill her senses came back with the first tear that fell.Never more can she feel his warm face in her breast(Under the leafy elm-tree),For his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest,And he's now from his pain a-set free;For his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled,Where no pain is a-known, and no tears are a-shed.

And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child(Under the lofty elm-tree),That a prettier never did babble and smileUp a-top of a proud mother's knee;And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and callHim her darling, and life, and her hope and her all.

But she found in the evening the child was not well(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And she felt she could give all the world for to tellOf a truth what his ailing could be;And she thought on him last in her prayers at night,And she look'd at him last as she put out the light.

And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight,And she rock'd him so sorrowfully;And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay,Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away.

And the moon was a-shining down into the place(Under the gloomy elm-tree),And his mother could see that his lips and his faceWere as white as clean ashes could be;And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swellTill her senses came back with the first tear that fell.

Never more can she feel his warm face in her breast(Under the leafy elm-tree),For his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest,And he's now from his pain a-set free;For his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled,Where no pain is a-known, and no tears are a-shed.

W. Barnes

A country life is sweet!In moderate cold and heat,To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair,In every field of wheat,The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers,And every meadow's brow;So that I say, no courtier mayCompare with them who clothe in grey,And follow the useful plough.They rise with the morning lark,And labour till almost dark;Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;While every pleasant parkNext morning is ringing with birds that are singing,On each green, tender bough.With what content and merriment,Their days are spent, whose minds are bentTo follow the useful plough!

They rise with the morning lark,And labour till almost dark;Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;While every pleasant parkNext morning is ringing with birds that are singing,On each green, tender bough.With what content and merriment,Their days are spent, whose minds are bentTo follow the useful plough!

Old Song

Among the dwellings framed by birdsIn field or forest with nice care,Is none that with the little wren'sIn snugness may compare.No door the tenement requires,And seldom needs a laboured roof;Yet is it to the fiercest sunImpervious, and storm-proof.So warm, so beautiful withal,In perfect fitness for its aim,That to the Kind, by special grace,Their instinct surely came.And when for their abodes they seekAn opportune recess,The hermit has no finer eyeFor shadowy quietness.These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls,A canopy in some still nook;Others are pent-housed by a braeThat overhangs a brook.There to the brooding bird her mateWarbles by fits his low clear song;And by the busy streamlet bothAre sung to all day long.Or in sequestered lanes they build,Where, till the flitting bird's return,Her eggs within the nest repose,Like relics in an urn.But still, where general choice is good,There is a better and a best;And, among fairest objects, someAre fairer than the rest.This, one of those small builders provedIn a green covert, where from outThe forehead of a pollard oakThe leafy antlers sprout;For she who planned the mossy lodge,Mistrusting her evasive skill,Had to a primrose looked for aid,Her wishes to fulfil.High on the trunk's projecting brow,And fixed an infant's span aboveThe budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,The prettiest of the grove!The treasure proudly did I showTo some whose minds without disdainCan turn to little things; but onceLooked up for it in vain:'Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler's prey,Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved,Indignant at the wrong.Just three days after, passing byIn clearer light, the moss-built cellI saw, espied its shaded mouth;And felt that all was well.The primrose for a veil had spreadThe largest of her upright leaves;And thus, for purposes benign,A simple flower deceives.Concealed from friends who might disturbThy quiet with no ill intent,Secure from evil eyes and handsOn barbarous plunder bent,Rest, mother-bird! and when thy youngTake flight, and thou art free to roam,When withered is the guardian flower,And empty thy late home,Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,Amid the unviolated grove,Housed near the growing primrose tuftIn foresight, or in love.

Among the dwellings framed by birdsIn field or forest with nice care,Is none that with the little wren'sIn snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires,And seldom needs a laboured roof;Yet is it to the fiercest sunImpervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal,In perfect fitness for its aim,That to the Kind, by special grace,Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seekAn opportune recess,The hermit has no finer eyeFor shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls,A canopy in some still nook;Others are pent-housed by a braeThat overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mateWarbles by fits his low clear song;And by the busy streamlet bothAre sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build,Where, till the flitting bird's return,Her eggs within the nest repose,Like relics in an urn.

But still, where general choice is good,There is a better and a best;And, among fairest objects, someAre fairer than the rest.

This, one of those small builders provedIn a green covert, where from outThe forehead of a pollard oakThe leafy antlers sprout;

For she who planned the mossy lodge,Mistrusting her evasive skill,Had to a primrose looked for aid,Her wishes to fulfil.

High on the trunk's projecting brow,And fixed an infant's span aboveThe budding flowers, peeped forth the nest,The prettiest of the grove!

The treasure proudly did I showTo some whose minds without disdainCan turn to little things; but onceLooked up for it in vain:

'Tis gone—a ruthless spoiler's prey,Who heeds not beauty, love, or song,'Tis gone! (so seemed it) and we grieved,Indignant at the wrong.

Just three days after, passing byIn clearer light, the moss-built cellI saw, espied its shaded mouth;And felt that all was well.

The primrose for a veil had spreadThe largest of her upright leaves;And thus, for purposes benign,A simple flower deceives.

Concealed from friends who might disturbThy quiet with no ill intent,Secure from evil eyes and handsOn barbarous plunder bent,

Rest, mother-bird! and when thy youngTake flight, and thou art free to roam,When withered is the guardian flower,And empty thy late home,

Think how ye prospered, thou and thine,Amid the unviolated grove,Housed near the growing primrose tuftIn foresight, or in love.

W. Wordsworth

Clear had the day been from the dawn,All chequer'd was the sky,Thin clouds like scarfs of cobweb lawnVeil'd heaven's most glorious eye.The wind had no more strength than this,That leisurely it blew,To make one leaf the next to kissThat closely by it grew.

M. Drayton

A True Story

The boy stood on the burning deckWhence all but he had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.The flames roll'd on. He would not goWithout his father's word;That father faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.He called aloud: 'Say, father, sayIf yet my task is done!'He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.'Speak, father!' once again he cried,'If I may yet be gone!'And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames roll'd on.Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And look'd from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave despair;And shouted but once more aloud,'My father! must I stay?'While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant childLike banners in the sky.Then came a burst of thunder-sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea,With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part;But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart!

The boy stood on the burning deckWhence all but he had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.

The flames roll'd on. He would not goWithout his father's word;That father faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.

He called aloud: 'Say, father, sayIf yet my task is done!'He knew not that the chieftain layUnconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried,'If I may yet be gone!'And but the booming shots replied,And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,And in his waving hair,And look'd from that lone post of deathIn still, yet brave despair;

And shouted but once more aloud,'My father! must I stay?'While o'er him fast through sail and shroud,The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,They caught the flag on high,And streamed above the gallant childLike banners in the sky.

Then came a burst of thunder-sound—The boy—oh! where was he?Ask of the winds that far aroundWith fragments strewed the sea,

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,That well had borne their part;But the noblest thing that perished thereWas that young faithful heart!

F. Hemans

The hollow winds begin to blow,The clouds look black, the glass is low,The soot falls down, the spaniels sleep,The spiders from their cobwebs peep:Last night the sun went pale to bed,The moon in halos hid her head;The boding shepherd heaves a sigh,For, see, a rainbow spans the sky:The walls are damp, the ditches smell,Closed is the pink-eyed pimpernel.Hark how the chairs and tables crack!Old Betty's joints are on the rack;Loud quack the ducks, the peacocks cry,The distant hills are seeming nigh.How restless are the snorting swine;The busy flies disturb the kine;Low o'er the grass the swallow wings,The cricket too, how sharp he sings;Puss on the hearth, with velvet paws,Sits wiping o'er her whiskered jaws.Through the clear stream the fishes rise,And nimbly catch the incautious flies.The glow-worms, numerous and bright,Illumed the dewy dell last night.At dusk the squalid toad was seen,Hopping and crawling o'er the green;The whirling wind the dust obeys,And in the rapid eddy plays;The frog has changed his yellow vest,And in a russet coat is dressed.Though June, the air is cold and still,The mellow blackbird's voice is shrill.My dog, so altered in his taste,Quits mutton-bones on grass to feast;And see yon rooks, how odd their flight,They imitate the gliding kite,And seem precipitate to fall,As if they felt the piercing ball.'Twill surely rain, I see with sorrow,Our jaunt must be put off to-morrow.

E. Jenner

I sprang to the stirrup, and Joris, and he;I galloped, Dirck galloped, we galloped all three;'Good speed!' cried the watch, as the gate-bolts undrew;'Speed!' echoed the wall to us galloping through;Behind shut the postern, the lights sank to rest,And into the midnight we galloped abreast.Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,With resolute shoulders each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix'—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,And 'Gallop,' cried Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!''How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.And all I remember is friends flocking roundAs I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

Not a word to each other; we kept the great paceNeck by neck, stride by stride, never changing our place;I turned in my saddle and made its girths tight,Then shortened each stirrup, and set the pique right,Rebuckled the cheek-strap, chained slacker the bit,Nor galloped less steadily Roland a whit.

'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew nearLokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear;At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be;And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,So Joris broke silence with, 'Yet there is time!'

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,And against him the cattle stood black every one,To stare through the mist at us galloping past,And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,With resolute shoulders each butting awayThe haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent backFor my voice, and the other pricked out on his track;And one eye's black intelligence,—ever that glanceO'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance!And the thick heavy spume-flakes which aye and anonHis fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris, 'Stay spur!Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,We'll remember at Aix'—for one heard the quick wheezeOf her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering knees,And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,'Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff;Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,And 'Gallop,' cried Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!'

'How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roanRolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;And there was my Roland to bear the whole weightOf the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall,Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer;Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

And all I remember is friends flocking roundAs I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,Which (the burgesses voted by common consent)Was no more than his due who brought good news from Ghent.

R. Browning

A fragment of a rainbow brightThrough the moist air I see,All dark and damp on yonder height,All bright and clear to me.An hour ago the storm was here,The gleam was far behind,So will our joys and grief appear,When earth has ceased to blind.Grief will be joy if on its edgeFall soft that holiest ray,Joy will be grief if no faint pledgeBe there of heavenly day.

A fragment of a rainbow brightThrough the moist air I see,All dark and damp on yonder height,All bright and clear to me.

An hour ago the storm was here,The gleam was far behind,So will our joys and grief appear,When earth has ceased to blind.

Grief will be joy if on its edgeFall soft that holiest ray,Joy will be grief if no faint pledgeBe there of heavenly day.

J. Keble

Underneath an old oak treeThere was of swine a huge company,That grunted as they crunch'd the mast:For that was ripe and fell full fast.Then they trotted away, for the wind it grew highOne acorn they left and no more might you spy.Next came a Raven that liked not such folly:He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!Blacker was he than blackest jet,Flew low in the rain and his feathers not wet.He picked up the acorn and buried it straightBy the side of a river both deep and great.Where then did the Raven go?He went high and low,Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.Many autumns, many springsTravelled he with wandering wings;Many summers, many winters—I can't tell half his adventures.At length he came back, and with him a she,And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.They built them a nest in the topmost bough,And young ones they had and were happy enow.But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,His brow, like a pent house, hung over his eyes.He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,At length he brought down the poor Raven's old oak.His young ones were killed, for they could not depart,And their mother did die of a broken heart.The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever;And they floated it down on the course of the river.They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,And with this tree and others they made a good ship.The ship it was launched; but in sight of the landSuch a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast:Round and round flew the Raven and cawed to the blast.He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—See! see! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls!Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,And he thanked him again and again for this treat:They had taken his all, and revenge it was sweet.

At length he came back, and with him a she,And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.They built them a nest in the topmost bough,And young ones they had and were happy enow.But soon came a woodman in leathern guise,His brow, like a pent house, hung over his eyes.He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,At length he brought down the poor Raven's old oak.His young ones were killed, for they could not depart,And their mother did die of a broken heart.The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever;And they floated it down on the course of the river.They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,And with this tree and others they made a good ship.The ship it was launched; but in sight of the landSuch a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast:Round and round flew the Raven and cawed to the blast.He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—See! see! o'er the top-mast the mad water rolls!Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,And he thanked him again and again for this treat:They had taken his all, and revenge it was sweet.

S. T. Coleridge

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear;Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?Delightful visitant, with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.The school-boy wandering through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts the new voice of spring to hear,And imitates the lay.What time the pea puts on the bloomThou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another spring to hail.Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year!O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the spring.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!Thou messenger of spring!Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,Thy certain voice we hear;Hast thou a star to guide thy path,Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant, with theeI hail the time of flowers,And hear the sound of music sweetFrom birds among the bowers.

The school-boy wandering through the woodTo pull the primrose gay,Starts the new voice of spring to hear,And imitates the lay.

What time the pea puts on the bloomThou fliest thy vocal vale,An annual guest in other lands,Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,Thy sky is ever clear;Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,No winter in thy year!

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee!We'd make, with joyful wing,Our annual visit o'er the globe,Companions of the spring.

Michael Bruce

Come listen to me, you gallants so free,All you that love mirth for to hear,And I will tell you of a bold outlawThat lived in Nottinghamshire.As Robin Hood in the forest stood,All under the greenwood tree,There he was aware of a brave young manAs fine as fine might be.The youngster was cloth'd in scarlet red,In scarlet fine and gay;And he did frisk it over the plain,And chanted a roundelay.As Robin Hood next morning stoodAmongst the leaves so gay,There did he espy the same young man,Come drooping along the way.The scarlet he wore the day beforeIt was clean cast away;And at every step he fetch'd a sigh,'Alack and a well-a-day!'Then stepp'd forth brave Little John,And Midge, the miller's son,Which made the young man bend his bow,When as he saw them come.'Stand off, stand off!' the young man said,'What is your will with me?''You must come before our master straight,Under yon greenwood tree.'And when he came bold Robin before,Robin asked him courteously,'O, hast thou any money to spareFor my merry men and me?''I have no money,' the young man said,'But five shillings and a ring;And that I have kept this seven long years,To have it at my wedding.'Yesterday I should have married a maid,But she soon from me was tane,And chosen to be an old knight's delight,Whereby my poor heart is slain.''What is thy name?' then said Robin Hood,'Come tell me without any fail:''By the faith of my body,' then said the young man,'My name it is Allin a Dale.''What wilt thou give me?' said Robin Hood,'In ready gold or fee,To help thee to thy true love again,And deliver her unto thee?''I have no money,' then quoth the young man,'No ready gold nor fee,But I will swear upon a bookThy true servant for to be.''How many miles is it to thy true love?Come tell me without guile:''By the faith of my body,' then said the young man,'It is but five little mile.'Then Robin he hasted over the plain,He did neither stint nor lin,Until he came unto the church,Where Allin should keep his wedding.'What hast thou here?' the bishop then said,'I prithee now tell unto me:''I am a bold harper,' quoth Robin Hood,'And the best in the north country.''O welcome, O welcome,' the bishop he said.'That music best pleaseth me;''You shall have no music,' quoth Robin Hood,'Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.'With that came in a wealthy knight,Which was both grave and old,And after him a finikin lass,Did shine like the glistering gold.'This is not a fit match,' quoth bold Robin Hood,'That you do seem to make here,For since we are come into the church,The bride shall choose her own dear.'Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,And blew blasts two or three;When four-and-twenty bowmen boldCame leaping over the lea.And when they came into the churchyard,Marching all on a row,The very first man was Allin a Dale,To give bold Robin his bow.'This is thy true love,' Robin he said,'Young Allin as I hear say;And you shall be married at this same time,Before we depart away.''That shall not be,' the bishop he said,'For thy word shall not stand;They shall be three times asked in the church,As the law is of our land.'Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,And put it upon Little John;'By the faith of my body,' then Robin said,'This cloth doth make thee a man.'When Little John went into the quire,The people began to laugh;He asked them seven times in the church,Lest three times should not be enough.'Who gives me this maid?' said Little John;Quoth Robin Hood, 'That do I,And he that takes her from Allin a Dale,Full dearly he shall her buy.'And thus having end of this merry wedding,The bride looked like a queen;And so they returned to the merry greenwood,Amongst the leaves so green.

Come listen to me, you gallants so free,All you that love mirth for to hear,And I will tell you of a bold outlawThat lived in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood,All under the greenwood tree,There he was aware of a brave young manAs fine as fine might be.

The youngster was cloth'd in scarlet red,In scarlet fine and gay;And he did frisk it over the plain,And chanted a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stoodAmongst the leaves so gay,There did he espy the same young man,Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day beforeIt was clean cast away;And at every step he fetch'd a sigh,'Alack and a well-a-day!'

Then stepp'd forth brave Little John,And Midge, the miller's son,Which made the young man bend his bow,When as he saw them come.

'Stand off, stand off!' the young man said,'What is your will with me?''You must come before our master straight,Under yon greenwood tree.'

And when he came bold Robin before,Robin asked him courteously,'O, hast thou any money to spareFor my merry men and me?'

'I have no money,' the young man said,'But five shillings and a ring;And that I have kept this seven long years,To have it at my wedding.

'Yesterday I should have married a maid,But she soon from me was tane,And chosen to be an old knight's delight,Whereby my poor heart is slain.'

'What is thy name?' then said Robin Hood,'Come tell me without any fail:''By the faith of my body,' then said the young man,'My name it is Allin a Dale.'

'What wilt thou give me?' said Robin Hood,'In ready gold or fee,To help thee to thy true love again,And deliver her unto thee?'

'I have no money,' then quoth the young man,'No ready gold nor fee,But I will swear upon a bookThy true servant for to be.'

'How many miles is it to thy true love?Come tell me without guile:''By the faith of my body,' then said the young man,'It is but five little mile.'

Then Robin he hasted over the plain,He did neither stint nor lin,Until he came unto the church,Where Allin should keep his wedding.

'What hast thou here?' the bishop then said,'I prithee now tell unto me:''I am a bold harper,' quoth Robin Hood,'And the best in the north country.'

'O welcome, O welcome,' the bishop he said.'That music best pleaseth me;''You shall have no music,' quoth Robin Hood,'Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.'

With that came in a wealthy knight,Which was both grave and old,And after him a finikin lass,Did shine like the glistering gold.

'This is not a fit match,' quoth bold Robin Hood,'That you do seem to make here,For since we are come into the church,The bride shall choose her own dear.'

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,And blew blasts two or three;When four-and-twenty bowmen boldCame leaping over the lea.

And when they came into the churchyard,Marching all on a row,The very first man was Allin a Dale,To give bold Robin his bow.

'This is thy true love,' Robin he said,'Young Allin as I hear say;And you shall be married at this same time,Before we depart away.'

'That shall not be,' the bishop he said,'For thy word shall not stand;They shall be three times asked in the church,As the law is of our land.'

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,And put it upon Little John;'By the faith of my body,' then Robin said,'This cloth doth make thee a man.'

When Little John went into the quire,The people began to laugh;He asked them seven times in the church,Lest three times should not be enough.

'Who gives me this maid?' said Little John;Quoth Robin Hood, 'That do I,And he that takes her from Allin a Dale,Full dearly he shall her buy.'

And thus having end of this merry wedding,The bride looked like a queen;And so they returned to the merry greenwood,Amongst the leaves so green.

Old Ballad

Under the green hedges after the snow,There do the dear little violets grow,Hiding their modest and beautiful headsUnder the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,Down there do the dear little violets lie;Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

Under the green hedges after the snow,There do the dear little violets grow,Hiding their modest and beautiful headsUnder the hawthorn in soft mossy beds.

Sweet as the roses, and blue as the sky,Down there do the dear little violets lie;Hiding their heads where they scarce may be seen,By the leaves you may know where the violet hath been.

J. Moultrie

'Open the door, some pity to show!Keen blows the northern wind!The glen is white with the drifted snow,And the path is hard to find.'No outlaw seeks your castle gate,From chasing the king's deer,Though even an outlaw's wretched stateMight claim compassion here.'A weary Palmer worn and weak,I wander for my sin;O, open, for Our Lady's sake!A pilgrim's blessing win!'The hare is crouching in her form,The hart beside the hind;An aged man, amid the storm,No shelter can I find.'You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,Dark, deep, and strong is he,And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,Unless you pity me.'The iron gate is bolted hard,At which I knock in vain;The owner's heart is closer barr'd,Who hears me thus complain.'Farewell, farewell! and Heaven grant,When old and frail you be,You never may the shelter want,That's now denied to me!'The Ranger on his couch lay warm,And heard him plead in vain;But oft, amid December's storm,He'll hear that voice again:For lo, when through the vapours dankMorn shone on Ettrick fair,A corpse, amid the alders rank,The Palmer welter'd there.

'Open the door, some pity to show!Keen blows the northern wind!The glen is white with the drifted snow,And the path is hard to find.

'No outlaw seeks your castle gate,From chasing the king's deer,Though even an outlaw's wretched stateMight claim compassion here.

'A weary Palmer worn and weak,I wander for my sin;O, open, for Our Lady's sake!A pilgrim's blessing win!

'The hare is crouching in her form,The hart beside the hind;An aged man, amid the storm,No shelter can I find.

'You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,Dark, deep, and strong is he,And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,Unless you pity me.

'The iron gate is bolted hard,At which I knock in vain;The owner's heart is closer barr'd,Who hears me thus complain.

'Farewell, farewell! and Heaven grant,When old and frail you be,You never may the shelter want,That's now denied to me!'

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,And heard him plead in vain;But oft, amid December's storm,He'll hear that voice again:

For lo, when through the vapours dankMorn shone on Ettrick fair,A corpse, amid the alders rank,The Palmer welter'd there.

Sir W. Scott

Come dear children, let us away;Down and away below.Now my brothers call from the bay;Now the great winds shorewards blow;Now the salt tides seawards flow;Now the wild white horses play,Champ and chafe and toss in the spray.Children dear, let us away.This way, this way.Call her once before you go.Call once yet,In a voice that she will know:'Margaret! Margaret!'Children's voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother's ear:Children's voices wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once, and come away.This way, this way.'Mother dear, we cannot stay.'The wild white horses foam and fret,Margaret! Margaret!Come dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-walled town,And the little grey church on the windy shore,Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts rang'd all roundFeed in the ooze of their pasture ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world forever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sat with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea.And the youngest sat on her knee.She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell,She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea,She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.'I said: 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves:Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.'She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?Children dear, were we long alone?'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say.''Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach in the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town,Through the narrow paved streets, where all was stillTo the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.We climb'd on the graves on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sat by the pillar; we saw her clear;'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,' I said, 'we are here alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.'But, ah, she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.'Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.'Come away, children, call no more,Come away, come down, call no more.Down, down, down,Down to the depths of the sea,She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy,From the humming street, and the child with its toy,From the priest and the bell, and the holy well,From the wheel where I spun,And the blessed light of the sun.'And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow clouded eye,And a heart sorrow laden,A long, long sigh,For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.Come away, away children,Come children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, 'Here came a mortal,But faithless was she,And alone dwell foreverThe kings of the sea.'But children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow,When clear falls the moonlight,When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr'd with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch'd sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze from the sand-hills,At the white sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back, down.Singing, 'There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she:She left lonely foreverThe kings of the sea.'

Call her once before you go.Call once yet,In a voice that she will know:'Margaret! Margaret!'

Children's voices should be dear(Call once more) to a mother's ear:Children's voices wild with pain.Surely she will come again.Call her once, and come away.This way, this way.'Mother dear, we cannot stay.'The wild white horses foam and fret,Margaret! Margaret!

Come dear children, come away down.Call no more.One last look at the white-walled town,And the little grey church on the windy shore,Then come down.She will not come though you call all day.Come away, come away.

Children dear, was it yesterdayWe heard the sweet bells over the bay?In the caverns where we lay,Through the surf and through the swell,The far-off sound of a silver bell?Sand-strewn caverns cool and deep,Where the winds are all asleep;Where the spent lights quiver and gleam;Where the salt weed sways in the stream;Where the sea-beasts rang'd all roundFeed in the ooze of their pasture ground;Where the sea-snakes coil and twine,Dry their mail and bask in the brine;Where great whales come sailing by,Sail and sail, with unshut eye,Round the world forever and aye?When did music come this way?Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, was it yesterday(Call yet once) that she went away?Once she sat with you and me,On a red gold throne in the heart of the sea.And the youngest sat on her knee.She comb'd its bright hair, and she tended it well,When down swung the sound of the far-off bell,She sigh'd, she look'd up through the clear green sea,She said, 'I must go, for my kinsfolk prayIn the little grey church on the shore to-day.'Twill be Easter-time in the world—ah me!And I lose my poor soul, Merman, here with thee.'I said: 'Go up, dear heart, through the waves:Say thy prayer, and come back to the kind sea-caves.'She smiled, she went up through the surf in the bay.Children dear, was it yesterday?

Children dear, were we long alone?'The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan;Long prayers,' I said, 'in the world they say.''Come,' I said, and we rose through the surf in the bay.We went up the beach in the sandy downWhere the sea-stocks bloom, to the white-walled town,Through the narrow paved streets, where all was stillTo the little grey church on the windy hill.From the church came a murmur of folk at their prayers,But we stood without in the cold blowing airs.We climb'd on the graves on the stones worn with rains,And we gazed up the aisle through the small leaded panes.She sat by the pillar; we saw her clear;'Margaret, hist! come quick, we are here.Dear heart,' I said, 'we are here alone.The sea grows stormy, the little ones moan.'But, ah, she gave me never a look,For her eyes were seal'd to the holy book.'Loud prays the priest; shut stands the door.'Come away, children, call no more,Come away, come down, call no more.

Down, down, down,Down to the depths of the sea,She sits at her wheel in the humming town,Singing most joyfully.Hark what she sings: 'O joy, O joy,From the humming street, and the child with its toy,From the priest and the bell, and the holy well,From the wheel where I spun,And the blessed light of the sun.'And so she sings her fill,Singing most joyfully,Till the shuttle falls from her hand,And the whizzing wheel stands still.She steals to the window and looks at the sand;And over the sand at the sea;And her eyes are set in a stare;And anon there breaks a sigh,And anon there drops a tear,From a sorrow clouded eye,And a heart sorrow laden,A long, long sigh,For the cold strange eyes of a little Mermaiden,And the gleam of her golden hair.

Come away, away children,Come children, come down.The hoarse wind blows colder;Lights shine in the town.She will start from her slumberWhen gusts shake the door;She will hear the winds howling,Will hear the waves roar.We shall see, while above usThe waves roar and whirl,A ceiling of amber,A pavement of pearl.Singing, 'Here came a mortal,But faithless was she,And alone dwell foreverThe kings of the sea.'

But children, at midnight,When soft the winds blow,When clear falls the moonlight,When spring-tides are low;When sweet airs come seawardFrom heaths starr'd with broom;And high rocks throw mildlyOn the blanch'd sands a gloom:Up the still, glistening beaches,Up the creeks we will hie;Over banks of bright seaweedThe ebb-tide leaves dry.We will gaze from the sand-hills,At the white sleeping town;At the church on the hill-side—And then come back, down.Singing, 'There dwells a loved one,But cruel is she:She left lonely foreverThe kings of the sea.'

M. Arnold

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