Published by Good Press, 2019

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The Children's Garland from the Best Poets

THE CHILD AND THE PIPER

ON MAY MORNING

III

THE APPROACH OF THE FAIRIES

ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

THE BROOK

STARS

VII

THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

VIII

THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID

SONG

LUCY GRAY

XII

RAIN IN SUMMER

XIII

EPITAPH ON A HARE

XIV

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

XVI

WINTER

XVII

THE INCHCAPE ROCK

XVIII

WRITTEN IN MARCH

XIX

LORD RANDAL

JOHN BARLEYCORN

XXI

MARY-ANN'S CHILD

XXII

THE USEFUL PLOUGH

XXIII

A WREN'S NEST

XXIV

A FINE DAY

XXV

CASABIANCA

XXVI

SIGNS OF RAIN

XXVII

HOW THEY BROUGHT THE GOOD NEWS FROM GHENT TO AIX

XXVIII

THE RAINBOW

XXIX

THE RAVEN AND THE OAK

XXX

ODE TO THE CUCKOO

XXXI

ROBIN HOOD AND ALLIN A DALE

XXXII

VIOLETS

XXXIII

THE PALMER

XXXIV

THE FORSAKEN MERMAN

XXXV

THE SANDS O' DEE

XXXVI

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE

XXXVII

A SEA DIRGE

XXXVIII

THE ANCIENT MARINER

XXXIX

SONG OF ARIEL

HOW'S MY BOY?

XLI

THE SPANISH ARMADA

XLII

THE TAR FOR ALL WEATHERS

XLIII

THE FISHERMAN

XLIV

THE SAILOR

XLV

THE WRECK OF THE HESPERUS

XLVI

A CANADIAN BOAT SONG

XLVII

ROSABELLE

XLVIII

THE BALLAD OF THE BOAT

XLIX

VERSES

HOME-THOUGHTS FROM ABROAD

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

LII

THE BELEAGUERED CITY

LIII

JAFFAR

LIV

COLIN AND LUCY

THE REDBREAST CHASING THE BUTTERFLY

LVI

THE CHILDREN IN THE WOOD

LVII

ROBIN REDBREAST

LVIII

THE OWL

LIX

HART LEAP WELL

THE SUMMER SHOWER

LXI

THE MOUSE'S PETITION

LXII

THE GRASSHOPPER

LXIII

THE SHEPHERD'S HOME

LXIV

THE LORD OF BURLEIGH

LXV

THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL

LXVI

EVENING

LXVII

THE PARROT

LXVIII

SONG

LXIX

THE BLIND BOY

LXX

FALSE FRIENDS-LIKE

LXXI

GOODY BLAKE AND HARRY GILL

LXXII

THE JOVIAL BEGGAR

LXXIII

BISHOP HATTO

LXXIV

THE OLD COURTIER

LXXV

JOHN GILPIN

LXXVI

THE MILKMAID

LXXVII

SIR SIDNEY SMITH

LXXVIII

THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN

LXXIX

THE TIGER

LXXX

KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY

LXXXI

THE FAIRIES

LXXXII

THE SUFFOLK MIRACLE

LXXXIII

THE NIGHTINGALE

LXXXIV

ON A FAVOURITE CAT DROWNED IN A TUB OF GOLDFISHES

LXXXV

THE FOX AT THE POINT OF DEATH

LXXXVI

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS, AND HOW HE GAINED THEM

LXXXVII

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

LXXXVIII

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

LXXXIX

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR

BOADICEA

XCI

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

XCII

LOVE AND GLORY

XCIII

AFTER BLENHEIM

XCIV

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER

XCV

MAHMOUD

XCVI

AUTUMN

XCVII

THE RAVEN

XCVIII

THE NIX

XCIX

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

THE BEGGAR MAID

THE WILD HUNTSMAN

CII

TO DAFFODILS

CIII

THE HOMES OF ENGLAND

CIV

MARY THE MAID OF THE INN

THE WITCHES' MEETING

CVI

ADELGITHA

CVII

THE COUNCIL OF HORSES

CVIII

ST. ROMUALD

CIX

LADY ALICE

THE OUTLANDISH KNIGHT

CXI

SPRING

CXII

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

CXIII

THE FOUNTAIN

CXIV

FAIR ROSAMUND

CXV

THE HITCHEN MAY-DAY SONG

CXVI

THE SPANISH LADY'S LOVE

CXVII

LITTLE WHITE LILY

CXVIII

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

CXIX

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

CXX

NONGTONGPAW

CXXI

POOR DOG TRAY

CXXII

THE FAITHFUL BIRD

CXXIII

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

CXXIV

THE SEA

CXXV

FIDELITY

CXXVI

THE FOX AND THE CAT

CXXVII

THE DOG AND THE WATER-LILY

CXXVIII

AN EPITAPH ON A ROBIN-REDBREAST

CXXIX

BAUCIS AND PHILEMON

CXXX

LULLABY FOR TITANIA

CXXXI

LORD THOMAS AND FAIR ELLINOR

CXXXII

QUEEN MAB

CXXXIII

YOUNG LOCHINVAR

CXXXIV

INCIDENT

CXXXV

KING LEAR AND HIS THREE DAUGHTERS

CXXXVI

THE BUTTERFLY AND THE SNAIL

CXXXVII

THE DÆMON LOVER

CXXXVIII

THE NIGHTINGALE AND THE GLOW-WORM

CXXXIX

THE LADY TURNED SERVING-MAN

CXL

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED

CXLI

TO A WATER FOWL

CXLII

ROBIN HOOD AND THE BISHOP OF HEREFORD

CXLIII

SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S CAMPAIGN

CXLIV

THE NUN'S LAMENT FOR PHILIP SPARROW

CXLV

TO A BUTTERFLY

CXLVI

THE DRAGON OF WANTLEY

CXLVII

THE UNGRATEFUL CUPID

CXLVIII

THE KING OF THE CROCODILES

CXLIX

THE LION AND THE CUB

THE SNAIL

CLI

THE COLUBRIAD

CLII

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY-TREE

CLIII

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

CLIV

SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE

CLV

THE THREE FISHERS

CLVI

ALICE FELL; OR, POVERTY

CLVII

THE FIRST SWALLOW

CLVIII

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

CLIX

THE THRUSH'S NEST

CLX

THE LAST OF THE FLOCK

CLXI

THE ROMANCE OF THE SWAN'S NEST

CLXII

SONG

CLXIII

TIMOTHY

CLXIV

THE SLEEPING BEAUTY

CLXV

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS

CLXVI

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB

CLXVII

THE WIDOW BIRD

CLXVIII

DORA

CLXIX

A WITCH

CLXX

NURSERY RHYMES

CLXXI

THE AGE OF CHILDREN HAPPIEST

CLXXII

THE NOBLE NATURE

CLXXIII

THE RAINBOW

INDEX OF WRITERS

Macmillan's Golden Treasury Series.

The Children's Garland from the Best Poets

Table of Contents

I

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THE CHILD AND THE PIPER

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Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he, laughing, said to me,

'Pipe a song about a lamb,'
So I piped with merry cheer;
'Piper, pipe that song again,'
So I piped, he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'
So I sang the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read.'
So he vanish'd from my sight;
And I pluck'd a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

W. Blake

II

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ON MAY MORNING

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Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her
The flow'ry May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that doth inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

J. Milton

III

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THE APPROACH OF THE FAIRIES

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Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task foredone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the scritch owl, scritching loud,
Puts the wretch that lies in woe,
In remembrance of a shroud.
Now it is the time of night
That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the churchway paths to glide:
And we fairies, that do run,
By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a mouse
Shall disturb this hallowed house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.

Through the house give glimmering light;
By the dead and drowsy fire,
Every elf and fairy sprite,
Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty after me,
Sing and dance it trippingly.
First rehearse this song by rote,
To each word a warbling note,
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
We will sing, and bless this place.

W. Shakespeare

IV

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ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION

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Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,
The linnet, and thrush say 'I love, and I love!'
In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong;
What it says I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,
And singing and loving—all come back together.
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
That he sings, and he sings, and forever sings he,
'I love my Love, and my Love loves me.'

S. T. Coleridge

V

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THE BROOK

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I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally,
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.

By thirty hills I hurry down,
Or slip between the ridges,
By twenty thorps, a little town,
And half a hundred bridges.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I chatter over stony ways,
In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
I babble on the pebbles.

With many a curve my bank I fret
By many a field and fallow,
And many a fairy foreland set
With willow-weed and mallow.

I chatter, chatter, as I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
And here and there a grayling,

And here and there a foamy flake
Upon me as I travel,
With many a silvery waterbreak
Above the golden gravel,

And draw them all along and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.

I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
I slide by hazel covers,
I move the sweet forget-me-nots
That grow for happy lovers.

I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
Among my skimming swallows;
I make the netted sunbeam dance
Against my sandy shallows.

I murmur under moon and stars
In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars;
I loiter round my cresses;

And out again I curve and flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come, and men may go,
But I go on forever.

A. Tennyson

VI

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STARS

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They glide upon their endless way,
For ever calm, for ever bright;
No blind hurry, no delay,
Mark the Daughters of the Night:
They follow in the track of Day,
In divine delight.

Shine on, sweet orbed Souls for aye,
For ever calm, for ever bright:
We ask not whither lies your way,
Nor whence ye came, nor what your light.
Be—still a dream throughout the day,
A blessing through the night.

B. Cornwall

VII

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THE SHEPHERD TO HIS LOVE

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Come live with me and be my Love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That hills and valleys, dale and field,
And all the craggy mountains yield.

There will we sit upon the rocks
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

There will I make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle.

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull,
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold.

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

Thy silver dishes for thy meat
As precious as the gods do eat,
Shall on an ivory table be
Prepared each day for thee and me.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Come live with me and be my Love.

C. Marlowe

VIII

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THE KITTEN AND FALLING LEAVES

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See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves—one—two—and three—
From the lofty elder tree!
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly: one might think
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Fairy hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.
—But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts!
First at one, and then its fellow,
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now—now one—
Now they stop and there are none:
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire!
With a tiger-leap half-way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again:
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in the eye
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shouts and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd?
Over happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure!

W. Wordsworth

IX

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THE FERRYMAN, VENUS, AND CUPID

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As I a fare had lately past,
And thought that side to ply,
I heard one, as it were, in haste,
A boat! a boat! to cry;
Which as I was about to bring,
And came to view my fraught,
Thought I, what more than heavenly thing
Hath fortune hither brought?
She, seeing mine eyes still on her were,
Soon, smilingly, quoth she,
Sirrah, look to your rudder there,
Why look'st thou thus at me?
And nimbly stepp'd into my boat
With her a little lad,
Naked and blind, yet did I note
That bow and shafts he had,
And two wings to his shoulders fixt,
Which stood like little sails,
With far more various colours mixt
Than be your peacocks' tails!
I seeing this little dapper elf
Such arms as these to bear,
Quoth I, thus softly to myself,
What strange things have we here?
I never saw the like, thought I,
'Tis more than strange to me,
To have a child have wings to fly,
And yet want eyes to see.
Sure this is some devised toy,
Or it transform'd hath been,
For such a thing, half bird, half boy,
I think was never seen.
And in my boat I turn'd about,
And wistly view'd the lad,
And clearly I saw his eyes were out,
Though bow and shafts he had.
As wistly she did me behold,
How lik'st thou him? quoth she.
Why, well, quoth I, the better should,
Had he but eyes to see.
How sayst thou, honest friend, quoth she,
Wilt thou a 'prentice take?
I think, in time, though blind he be,
A ferryman he'll make.
To guide my passage-boat, quoth I,
His fine hands were not made;
He hath been bred too wantonly
To undertake my trade.
Why, help him to a master, then,
Quoth she, such youths be scant;
It cannot be but there be men
That such a boy do want.
Quoth I, when you your best have done,
No better way you'll find,
Than to a harper bind your son,
Since most of them are blind.
The lovely mother and the boy
Laugh'd heartily thereat,
As at some nimble jest or toy,
To hear my homely chat.
Quoth I, I pray you let me know,
Came he thus first to light,
Or by some sickness, hurt, or blow,
Deprived of his sight?
Nay, sure, quoth she, he thus was born.
'Tis strange, born blind! quoth I;
I fear you put this as a scorn
On my simplicity.
Quoth she, thus blind I did him bear.
Quoth I, if't be no lie,
Then he's the first blind man, I'll swear,
E'er practis'd archery.
A man! quoth she, nay, there you miss,
He's still a boy as now,
Nor to be elder than he is
The gods will him allow.
To be no elder than he is!
Then sure he is some sprite,
I straight reply'd. Again at this
The goddess laugh'd outright.
It is a mystery to me,
An archer, and yet blind!
Quoth I again, how can it be,
That he his mark should find?
The gods, quoth she, whose will it was
That he should want his sight,
That he in something should surpass,
To recompense their spite,
Gave him this gift, though at his game
He still shot in the dark,
That he should have so certain aim,
As not to miss his mark.
By this time we were come ashore,
When me my fare she paid,
But not a word she utter'd more,
Nor had I her bewray'd.
Of Venus nor of Cupid I
Before did never hear,
But that a fisher coming by
Then told me who they were.

M. Drayton

X

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SONG

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Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall we see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live in the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare

XI

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LUCY GRAY

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Or Solitude

Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray:
And, when I crossed the wild,
I chanced to see at break of day
The solitary child.

No mate, no comrade Lucy knew;
She dwelt on a wide moor,
—The sweetest thing that ever grew
Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the fawn at play,
The hare upon the green;
But the sweet face of Lucy Gray
Will never more be seen.

'To-night will be a stormy night—
You to the town must go;
And take a lantern, child, to light
Your mother through the snow.'

'That, Father, will I gladly do!
'Tis scarcely afternoon—
The minster-clock has just struck two,
And yonder is the moon!'

At this the Father raised his hook,
And snapped a faggot-band;
He plied his work;—and Lucy took
The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe:
With many a wanton stroke
Her feet disperse the powdery snow,
That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time:
She wandered up and down;
And many a hill did Lucy climb;
But never reached the town.

The wretched parents all that night
Went shouting far and wide;
But there was neither sound nor sight
To serve them for a guide.

At day-break on a hill they stood
That overlooked the moor;
And thence they saw the bridge of wood,
A furlong from their door.

They wept, and, turning homeward, cried,
'In heaven we all shall meet!'
—When in the snow the mother spied
The print of Lucy's feet.

Then downward from the steep hill's edge
They tracked the footmarks small;
And through the broken hawthorn hedge,
And by the long stone wall;

And then an open field they crossed;
The marks were still the same;
They tracked them on, nor ever lost;
And to the bridge they came.

They followed from the snowy bank
Those footmarks, one by one,
Into the middle of the plank;
And further there were none!

—Yet some maintain that to this day
She is a living child;
That you may see sweet Lucy Gray
Upon the lonesome wild.

O'er rough and smooth she trips along,
And never looks behind;
And sings a solitary song
That whistles in the wind.

W. Wordsworth

XII

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RAIN IN SUMMER

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How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and the heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs!
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!
Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighbouring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Engulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

In the country on every side,
Where far and wide,
Like a leopard's tawny and spotted hide
Stretches the plain,
To the dry grass and the drier grain
How welcome is the rain!

In the furrowed land
The toilsome and patient oxen stand;
Lifting the yoke-encumbered head,
With their dilated nostrils spread,
They silently inhale
The clover-scented gale,
And the vapours that arise
From the well-watered and smoking soil.
For this rest in the furrow after toil
Their large and lustrous eyes
Seem to thank the Lord,
More than man's spoken word.

Near at hand,
From under the sheltering trees,
The farmer sees
His pastures and his fields of grain,
As they bend their tops
To the numberless beating drops
Of the incessant rain.
He counts it as no sin
That he sees therein
Only his own thrift and gain.

H. W. Longfellow

XIII

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EPITAPH ON A HARE

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Here lies, whom hound did ne'er pursue
Nor swifter greyhound follow,
Whose foot ne'er tainted morning dew,
Nor ear heard huntsman's hallo!

Old Tiney, surliest of his kind,
Who, nurs'd with tender care,
And to domestic bounds confined,
Was still a wild Jack-hare.

Though duly from my hand he took
His pittance every night,
He did it with a jealous look,
And, when he could, would bite.

His diet was of wheaten bread,
And milk, and oats, and straw;
Thistles, or lettuces instead,
With sand to scour his maw.

On twigs of hawthorn he regaled,
On pippin's russet peel,
And when his juicy salads failed,
Sliced carrot pleased him well.

A Turkey carpet was his lawn,
Whereon he loved to bound,
To skip and gambol like a fawn,
And swing himself around.

His frisking was at evening hours,
For then he lost his fear,
But most before approaching showers,
Or when a storm drew near.

Eight years and five round-rolling moons
He thus saw steal away,
Dozing out all his idle noons,
And every night at play.

I kept him for his humours' sake,
For he would oft beguile
My heart of thoughts that made it ache,
And force me to a smile.

But now, beneath this walnut shade,
He finds his long last home,
And waits, in snug concealment laid,
Till gentler Puss shall come.

He, still more aged, feels the shocks
From which no care can save,
And, partner once of Tiney's box,
Must soon partake his grave.

W. Cowper

XIV

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ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL

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Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
'What writest thou?'—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answer'd, 'The names of those who love the Lord.'
'And is mine one?' said Abou. 'Nay, not so,'
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, 'I pray thee then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men.'

The angel wrote and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And show'd the names whom love of God had bless'd
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt

XV

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LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY

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Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever dew;
And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a Lady in the meads,
Full beautiful, a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean and sing
A fairy's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look'd at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild sad eyes,
So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumber'd on the moss,
And there I dream'd, ah, woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dream'd
On the cold hill-side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried 'La belle Dame sans mercy
Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloom
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill-side.

And this is why I sojourn here
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake,
And no birds sing.

J. Keats

XVI

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WINTER

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When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the Shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail;
When blood is nipt, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tuwhoo!
Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow
And Marian's nose looks red and raw
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl
Tuwhoo!
Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

W. Shakespeare

XVII

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THE INCHCAPE ROCK

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No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
The ship was as still as she could be,
Her sails from heaven received no motion,
Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok
Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung,
And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell,
The Mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;
The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;
Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat,
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok.'

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock
Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away,
He scour'd the seas for many a day;
And now grown rich with plunder'd store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand,
So dark it is they see no land.
Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

'Can'st hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?
For methinks we should be near the shore;
Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'

They hear no sound, the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock:
Cried they, 'It is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He curst himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear
One dreadful sound could the Rover hear,
A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell,
The fiends below were ringing his knell.

R. Southey

XVIII

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WRITTEN IN MARCH

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The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,
The green field sleeps in the sun;
The oldest and youngest
Are at work with the strongest;
The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill
On the top of the bare hill;
The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing;
The rain is over and gone!

W. Wordsworth

XIX

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LORD RANDAL

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'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

XX

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JOHN BARLEYCORN

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There was three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John 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 head
Show'd he began to fall.

His colour sickened more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To 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 pit
With 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 posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Old Ballad

XXI

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MARY-ANN'S CHILD

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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 smile
Up a-top of a proud mother's knee;
And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call
Him 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 tell
Of 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 face
Were as white as clean ashes could be;
And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swell
Till 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

XXII

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THE USEFUL PLOUGH

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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 may
Compare 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 park
Next 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 bent
To follow the useful plough!

Old Song

XXIII

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A WREN'S NEST

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