Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

I sat down again,
And not a creature stirred;
I laid the little bird
Again where it had laid;

And again when nothing stirred,
And not a word I said,
Then my little bird
Lifted up its head,

And the little beak
Loosed its stubborn pride,
And it opened, it opened,
With a yearning strong and wide.

It lay in my breast,
It uttered no cry,
'Twas famished,'twas famished,
And I couldn't tell why.

I couldn't tell why,
But I saw that it would die,
For all that I kept dancing round and round,
And singing about it so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"

I never look sad,
I hear what people say,
I laugh when they are gay
And they think I am glad.

My tears never start,
I never say a word,
But I think that my heart
Is like that little bird.

Every day I read,
And I sing, and I play,
But thro' the long day
It taketh no heed.

It taketh no heed
Of any pleasant thing,
I know it doth not read,
I know it doth not sing.

With my mouth I read,
With my hands I play,
My shut heart is shut,
Coax it how you may.

You may coax it how you may
While the day is broad and bright,
But in the dead night
When the guests are gone away,

And no more the music sweet
Up the house doth pass,
Nor the dancing feet
Shake the nursery glass;

And I've heard my aunt
Along the corridor,
And my uncle gaunt
Lock his chamber door;

And upon the stair
All is hushed and still,
And the last wheel
Is silent in the square;

And the nurses snore,
And the dim sheets rise and fall,
And the lamplight's on the wall,
And the mouse is on the floor;

And the curtains of my bed
Are like a heavy cloud,
And the clock ticks loud,
And sounds are in my head;

And little Lizzie sleeps
Softly at my side,
It opens, it opens,
With a yearning strong and wide!

It yearns in my breast,
It utters no cry,
'Tis famished, 'tis famished,
And I feel that I shall die,
I feel that I shall die,
And none will know why.

Tho' the pleasant life is dancing round and round,
And singing about me so cheerly,
With "Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!"

SYDNEY DOBELL

52 THE FIRST GRIEF

"Oh! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee--
Where is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;
I care not now to chase its flight--
Oh! call my brother back.

"The flowers run wild--the flowers we sowed
Around our garden tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load--
Oh! call him back to me."

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thou'lt see.

"A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go--thou must play alone, my boy--
Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain;
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me played,
Would I had loved him more!"

FELICIA HEMANS

53 THE POPLAR FIELD

The poplars are felled; farewell to the shade
And the whispering sound of the cool colonnade;
The winds play no longer and sing in the leaves,
Nor Ouse on his bosom their image receives.

Twelve years have elapsed since I first took a view
Of my favourite field, and the bank where they grew;
And now in the grass behold they are laid,
And the tree is my seat that once lent me a shade.

The blackbird has fled to another retreat
Where the hazels afford him a screen from the heat,
And the scene where his melody charmed me before
Resounds with his sweet-flowing ditty no more.

My fugitive years are all hasting away,
And I must ere long lie as lowly as they
With a turf on my breast, and a stone at my head,
Ere another such grove shall arise in its stead.

'Tis a sight to engage me, if anything can,
To muse on the perishing pleasures of man;
Though his life be a dream, his enjoyments, I see,
Have a being less durable even than he.

WILLIAM COWPER

54 FAREWELL

Not soon shall I forget--a sheet
Of golden water, cold and sweet,
The young moon with her head in veils
Of silver, and the nightingales.

A wain of hay came up the lane--
O fields I shall not walk again,
And trees I shall not see, so still
Against a sky of daffodil!

Fields where my happy heart had rest,
And where my heart was heaviest,
I shall remember them at peace
Drenched in moon-silver like a fleece.

The golden water sweet and cold,
The moon of silver and of gold,
The dew upon the gray grass-spears,
I shall remember them with tears.

KATHARINE TYNAN

55 "YE BANKS AND BRAES O' BONNIE DOON"

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon,
How can ye bloom sae fair?
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu' o' care?

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o' the happy days
When my fause Luve was true.

Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o' my fate.

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka[48] bird sang o' its love;
And sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose,
Frae aff its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw[49] the rose,
But left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS

56 TO A RIVER IN THE SOUTH

Call me no more, O gentle stream,
To wander through thy sunny dream,
No more to lean at twilight cool
Above thy weir and glimmering pool.

Surely I know thy hoary dawns,
The silver crisp on all thy lawns,
The softly swirling undersong
That rocks thy reeds the winter long.

Surely I know the joys that ring
Through the green deeps of leafy spring;
I know the elfin cups and domes
That are their small and secret homes.

Yet is the light for ever lost
That daily once thy meadows crossed,
The voice no more by thee is heard
That matched the song of stream and bird.

Call me no more!--thy waters roll
Here, in the world that is my soul,
And here, though Earth be drowned in night,
Old love shall dwell with old delight.

HENRY NEWBOLT

57 THE DESERTED HOUSE

There's no smoke in the chimney,
And the rain beats on the floor;
There's no glass in the window,
There's no wood in the door;
The heather grows behind the house,
And the sand lies before.

No hand hath trained the ivy,
The walls are gray and bare;
The boats upon the sea sail by,
Nor ever tarry there.
No beast of the field comes nigh,
Nor any bird of the air.

MARY COLERIDGE

58 AN OLD WOMAN OF THE ROADS

O, to have a little house!
To own the hearth and stool and all!
The heaped-up sods upon the fire,
The pile of turf against the wall!

To have a clock with weights and chains
And pendulum swinging up and down!
A dresser filled with shining delph,
Speckled and white and blue and brown!

I could be busy all the day
Clearing and sweeping hearth and floor,
And fixing on their shelf again
My white and blue and speckled store!

I could be quiet there at night
Beside the fire and by myself,
Sure of a bed, and loth to leave
The ticking clock and the shining delph!

Och! but I'm weary of mist and dark,
And roads where there's never a house or bush,
And tired I am of bog and road
And the crying wind and the lonesome hush!

And I am praying to God on high,
And I am praying Him night and day,
For a little house--a house of my own--
Out of the wind's and the rain's way.

PADRAIC COLUM

~59~ A DESERTED HOME

Here where the fields lie lonely and untended,
Once stood the old house grey among the trees,
Once to the hills rolled the waves of the cornland--
Long waves and golden, softer than the sea's.

Long, long ago has the ploughshare rusted,
Long has the barn stood roofless and forlorn;
But oh! far away are some who still remember
The songs of the young girls binding up the corn.

Here where the windows shone across the darkness,
Here where the stars once watched above the fold,
Still watch the stars, but the sheepfold is empty;
Falls now the rain where the hearth glowed of old.

Here where the leagues of melancholy lough-sedge
Moan in the wind round the grey forsaken shore,
Once waved the corn in the mid-month of autumn,
Once sped the dance when the corn was on the floor.

SIDNEY ROYSE LYSAGHT

60 UNDER THE WOODS

When these old woods were young
The thrushes' ancestors
As sweetly sung
In the old years.

There was no garden here,
Apples nor mistletoe;
No children dear
Ran to and fro.

New then was this thatched cot,
But the keeper was old,
And he had not
Much lead or gold.

Most silent beech and yew:
As he went round about
The woods to view
Seldom he shot.

But now that he is gone
Out of most memories,
Still lingers on,
A stoat of his,

But one, shrivelled and green,
And with no scent at all,
And barely seen
On this shed wall.

EDWARD THOMAS

61 "BLOWS THE WIND TO-DAY"

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

62 THE TWA BROTHERS

There were twa brethren in the north,
They went[50] to the school thegither;
The one unto the other said,
"Will you try a warsle[51] afore?"

They warsled up, they warsled down,
Till Sir John fell to the ground,
And there was a knife in Sir Willie's pouch,
Gied him a deadlie wound.

"O brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon burn clear,
And wash the blood from off my wound,
And it will bleed nae mair."

He took him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon burn clear,
And washd the blood from off his wound,
And aye it bled the mair.

"O brither dear, take me on your back,
Carry me to yon kirk-yard,
And dig a grave baith wide and deep,
And lay my body there."

He's taen him up upon his back,
Carried him to yon kirk-yard,
And dug a grave baith deep and wide,
And laid his body there.

"But what will I say to my father dear,
Gin[52] he chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy him a cask of wine."

"And what will I say to my mother dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy her a new silk gown."

"And what will I say to my sister dear,
Gin she chance to say, Willie, whar's John?"
"Oh say that he's to England gone,
To buy her a wedding ring."

"But what will I say to her you lo'e dear,
Gin she cry, Why tarries my John?"
"Oh tell her I lie in Kirk-land fair,
And home shall never come."

63 THE DEAD KNIGHT

The cleanly rush of the mountain air,
And the mumbling, grumbling humble-bees,
Are the only things that wander there,
The pitiful bones are laid at ease,
The grass has grown in his tangled hair,
And a rambling bramble binds his knees.

To shrieve his soul from the pangs of hell,
The only requiem-bells that rang
Were the hare-bell and the heather-bell.
Hushed he is with the holy spell
In the gentle hymn the wind sang,
And he lies quiet, and sleeps well.

He is bleached and blanched with the summer sun;
The misty rain and the cold dew
Have altered him from the kingly one
(That his lady loved, and his men knew)
And dwindled him to a skeleton.

The vetches have twined about his bones,
The straggling ivy twists and creeps
In his eye-sockets; the nettle keeps
Vigil about him while he sleeps.

Over his body the wind moans
With a dreary tune throughout the day,
In a chorus wistful, eerie, thin
As the gull's cry--as the cry in the bay,
The mournful word the seas say
When tides are wandering out or in.

JOHN MASEFIELD

64 SHEATH AND KNIFE

One king's daughter said to anither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
"We'll gae ride like sister and brither,"
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair_.

"We'll ride doun into yonder valley,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
Whare the greene green trees are budding sae gaily.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

"Wi hawke and hounde we will hunt sae rarely,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And we'll come back in the morning early."
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

They rade on like sister and brither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And they hunted and hawket in the valley thegether.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

"Now, lady, hauld my horse and my hawk,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
For I maun na[53] ride, and I daur na[54] walk,
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair_."

"But set me doun be the rute o' this tree,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
For there ha'e I dreamt that my bed sall be."
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

The ae king's daughter did lift doun the ither,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
She was licht in her armis like ony fether.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

Bonnie Lady Ann sat doun be the tree,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And a wide grave was houkit[55] whare nane suld be.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

The hawk had nae lure, and the horse had nae master,
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
And the faithless hounds thro' the woods ran faster.
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

The one king's daughter has ridden awa',
_Brume blumes bonnie and grows sae fair_,
But bonnie Lady Ann lay in the deed-thraw.[56]
_And we'll neer gae down to the brume nae mair._

65 I HAVE A YOUNG SISTER

I have a yong suster I have a young sister
fer beyondyn the se; Far beyond the sea;
Many be the drowryis Many are the keepsakes
that che sente me. That she's sent me.

Che sente me the cherye, She sent me a cherry--
withoutyn ony ston, It hadn't any stone;
And so che dede (the) dowe, And so she did a wood dove
withoutyn ony bon. Withouten any bone.

Sche sente me the brere, She sent me a briar
withoutyn ony rynde, Withouten any rind;
Sche bad me love my lemman She bade me love my sweetheart
withoute longgyng. Without longing in my mind.

How shuld ony cherye How should any cherry
be withoute ston? Be without a stone?
And how shuld ony dowe And how should any wood dove
ben withoute bon? Be without a bone?

How shuld any brere How should any briar,
ben withoute rynde? Be without rind?
How shuld I love my lemman And how love a sweetheart
without longyng? Without longing in my mind?

Quan the cherye was a flour, When the cherry was a flower
than hadde it non ston; Then it had no stone;
Quan the dowe was an ey, When the wood-dove was an egg
than hadde it non bon. Then it had no bone.

Quan the brere was onbred, When the briar was unbred
than hadde it non rynd; Then it had no rind;
Quan the mayden hayt that che lovit, And when a maid hath that she loves,
che is without longing. She longs not in her mind.

66 ANNABEL LEE

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we,
Of many far wiser than we;
And neither the angels in heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

EDGAR ALLAN POE

67 THE SHELL

And then I pressed the shell
Close to my ear
And listened well,
And straightway like a bell
Came low and clear
The slow, sad murmur of far distant seas,
Whipped by an icy breeze
Upon a shore
Wind-swept and desolate.
It was a sunless strand that never bore
The footprint of a man,
Nor felt the weight
Since time began
Of any human quality or stir
Save what the dreary winds and waves incur.
And in the hush of waters was the sound
Of pebbles rolling round,
For ever rolling with a hollow sound.
And bubbling sea-weeds as the waters go
Swish to and fro
Their long, cold tentacles of slimy grey.
There was no day,
Nor ever came a night
Setting the stars alight
To wonder at the moon:
Was twilight only and the frightened croon,
Smitten to whimpers, of the dreary wind
And waves that journeyed blind--
And then I loosed my ear--oh, it was sweet
To hear a cart go jolting down the street!

JAMES STEPHENS

FEASTS : FAIRS :

BEGGARS : GIPSIES :

68 LONDON BRIDGE

London Bridge is broken down,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
London Bridge is broken down,
_With a gay lady_.

How shall we build it up again?
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
How shall we build it up again?
_With a gay lady_.

Silver and gold will be stole away,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Silver and gold will be stole away,
_With a gay lady_.

Build it up with iron and steel,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Build it up with iron and steel,
_With a gay lady_.

Iron and steel will bend and bow,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Iron and steel will bend and bow,
_With a gay lady_.

Build it up with wood and clay,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Build it up with wood and clay,
_With a gay lady_.

Wood and clay will wash away,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Wood and clay will wash away,
_With a gay lady_.

Build it up with stone so strong,
_Dance o'er my Lady Lee_,
Huzza! 'twill last for ages long,
_With a gay lady_.

69 HOLY THURSDAY

'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in red and blue and green,
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now, like a mighty wind they raise to Heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among.
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor;
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

WILLIAM BLAKE

70 THE MAYORS

This city and this country has brought forth many mayors
To sit in state, and give forth laws out of their old oak chairs,
With face as brown as any nut with drinking of strong ale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

With scarlet gowns and broad gold lace, would make a yeoman sweat;
With stockings rolled above their knees and shoes as black as jet;
With eating beef and drinking beer, O they were stout and hale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

Thus sitting at the table wide the Mayor and Aldermen
Were fit to give law to the city; each ate as much as ten:
The hungry poor entered the hall to eat good beef and ale--
Good English hospitality, O then it did not fail!

WILLIAM BLAKE

71 THE FINE OLD ENGLISH GENTLEMAN

I'll sing you a good old song,
Made by a good old pate,
Of a fine old English gentleman
Who had an old estate,
And who kept up his old mansion
At a bountiful old rate;
With a good old porter to relieve
The old poor at his gate,
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.

His hall so old was hung around
With pikes and guns and bows,
And swords, and good old bucklers,
That had stood some tough old blows;
'Twas there _his worship_ held his state
In doublet and trunk hose,
And quaffed his cup of good old sack,
To warm his good old nose,
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.

When winter's cold brought frost and snow,
He opened house to all;
And though threescore and ten his years,
He featly led the ball;
Nor was the houseless wanderer
E'er driven from his hall;
For while he feasted all the great,
He ne'er forgot the small;
Like a fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.

But time, though old, is strong in flight,
And years rolled swiftly by;
And Autumn's falling leaves proclaimed
This good old man must die!
He laid him down right tranquilly,
Gave up life's latest sigh;
And mournful stillness reigned around,
And tears bedewed each eye,
For this fine old English gentleman
All of the olden time.

Now surely this is better far
Than all the new parade
Of theatres and fancy balls,
"At home" and masquerade:
And much more economical,
For all his bills were paid.
Then leave your new vagaries quite,
And take up the old trade
Of a fine old English gentleman,
All of the olden time.

72 BRING US IN GOOD ALE

_Bring us in good ale, and bring us in good ale;_
_For y sour blessed Ladake bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no browne bred, for that is made of brane,[57]
Nor bring us in no white bred, for therein is no gane,
_But bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no befe, for there is many bones,
But bring us in good ale, for that goth downe at ones,
_And bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no bacon, for that is passing fat,
But bring us in good ale, and gife us enought of that;
_And bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no mutton, for that is often lene,
Nor bring us in no tripes, for they be seldom clene,
_But bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no egges, for there are many schelles,
But bring us in good ale, and gife us nothing elles;
_And bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no butter, for therein are many hores,[58]
Nor bring us in no pigges flesch, for that will make us bores,
_But bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no podinges, for therein is all Godes good,[59]
Nor bring us in no venesen, for that is not for our blod;
_But bring us in good ale!_

Bring us in no capons flesch, for that is oftė dere,
Nor bring us in no dokes[60] flesch, for they slober in the mere,
_But bring us in good ale!_

73 THE VISION OF MAC CONGLINNE

A vision that appeared to me,
An apparition wonderful
I tell to all:
There was a coracle all of lard
Within a Port of New-Milk Lake
Upon the world's smooth sea.

We went into that man-of-war,
'Twas warrior-like to take the road
O'er ocean's heaving waves.
Our oar-strokes then we pulled
Across the level of the main,
Throwing the sea's harvest up
Like honey, the sea-soil.

The fort we reached was beautiful,
With works of custards thick,
Beyond the lake.
Fresh butter was the bridge in front,
The rubble dyke was fair white wheat,
Bacon the palisade.

Stately, pleasantly it sat,
A compact house and strong.
Then I went in:
The door of it was hung beef,
The threshold was dry bread,
Cheese-curds the walls....

Behind it was a well of wine,
Beer and bragget in streams,
Each full pool to the taste.
Malt in smooth wavy sea
Over a lard-spring's brink
Flowed through the floor....

A row of fragrant apple-trees,
An orchard in its pink-tipped bloom,
Between it and the hill.
A forest tall of real leeks,
Of onions and of carrots, stood
Behind the house.

Within, a household generous,
A welcome of red, firm-fed men,
Around the fire:
Seven bead-strings and necklets seven
Of cheeses and of bits of tripe
Round each man's neck.

The Chief in cloak of beefy fat
Beside his noble wife and fair
I then beheld.
Below the lofty cauldron's spit
Then the Dispenser I beheld,
His fleshfork on his back.

74 STOOL-BALL

... Now milkmaids' pails are deckt with flowers,
And men begin to drink in bowers,
The mackarels come up in shoals,
To fill the mouths of hungry souls;
Sweet sillabubs, and lip-loved tansey,
For William is prepared by Nancy.
Much time is wasted now away,
At pigeon-holes, and nine-pin play,
Whilst hob-nail Dick, and simp'ring Frances,
Trip it away in country dances;
At stool-ball and at barley-break,
Wherewith they harmless pastime make....

75 MILKING PAILS

Mary's gone a-milking,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Mary's gone a-milking,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Take your pails and go after her,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Take your pails and go after her,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_.

Buy me a pair of new milking pails,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Buy me a pair of new milking pails,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Where's the money to come from,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Where's the money to come from,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Sell my father's feather bed,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Sell my father's feather bed,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

What's your father to sleep on,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What's your father to sleep on,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Put him in the truckle bed,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put him in the truckle bed,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

What are the children to sleep on,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What are the children to sleep on,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Put them in the pig-sty,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put them in the pig-sty,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

What are the pigs to lie in,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What are the pigs to lie in,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Put them in the washing-tubs,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Put them in the washing-tubs,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

What am I to wash in,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
What am I to wash in,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Wash in the thimble,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Wash in the thimble,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Thimble won't hold your father's shirt,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Thimble won't hold your father's shirt,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_.

Wash in the river,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Wash in the river,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Suppose the clothes should blow away,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the clothes should blow away,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Set a man to watch them,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Set a man to watch them,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Suppose the man should go to sleep,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the man should go to sleep,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Take a boat and go after them,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Take a boat and go after them,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_.

Suppose the boat should be upset,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Suppose the boat should be upset,
_Gentle sweet daughter o' mine_?

Then that would be an end of you,
_A rea, a ria, a roses_,
Then that would be an end of you,
_Gentle sweet mother o' mine_!

76 THE PEDLAR'S SONG

Lawne as white as driven Snow,
Cypresse blacke as ere was Crow,
Cloves as sweete as Damaske Roses,
Maskes for faces, and for noses,
Bugle-bracelet, Necke-lace Amber,
Perfume for a Ladies Chamber:
Golden Quoifes, and Stomachers
For my Lads, to give their deers:
Pins, and peaking-stickes of steele:
What Maids lacke from head to heele:
Come buy of me, come: come buy, come buy,
Buy Lads, or else your Lasses cry: Come buy.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

77 FINE KNACKS FOR LADIES

Fine knacks for ladies! cheap, choice, brave, and new,
Good pennyworths--but money cannot move:
I keep a fair but for the Fair to view--
A beggar may be liberal of love.
Though all my wares be trash, the heart is true,
_The heart is true_.

Great gifts are guiles and look for gifts again;
My trifles come as treasures from my mind:
It is a priceless jewel to be plain;
Sometimes in shell the orient'st pearls we find:--
Of others take a sheaf, of me a grain!
_Of me a grain!..._

78 OH! DEAR!

Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd buy me a fairing should please me,
And then for a kiss, oh! he vowed he would tease me,
He promised he'd bring me a bunch of blue ribbons
To tie up my bonny brown hair.

And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

He promised he'd bring me a basket of posies,
A garland of lilies, a garland of roses,
A little straw hat, to set off the blue ribbons
That tie up my bonny brown hair.

And it's oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Dear! dear! what can the matter be?
Oh! dear! what can the matter be?
Johnny's so long at the fair.

79 SLEDBURN FAIR

I'd oft heard tell of this Sledburn fair,
And fain I would gan thither,
'Twere in the prime of summer-time,
In fine and pleasant weather;
My Dad and Mam they did agree
That Nell and I should gae
See for to view this Sledburn fair,
And ride on Dobbin, oh....

So Nell gat on and I gat on,
And we both rode off together,
And of everybody we did meet
Enquired how far 'twas thither?
Until we came to t'other field end,
'Twas about steeple high,
"See yonder, Nell, see yonder, Nell,
There's Sledburn town," cried I.

And when we reached this famous town
We enquirèd for an alehouse,
We lookèd up and saw a sign
As high as any gallows;
We called for Harry, the ostler,
To give our horse some hay,
For we had come to Sledburn Fair
And meant to stop all day.

The landlord then himself came out
And led us up an entry;
He took us in the finest room
As if we'd been quite gentry.
And puddings and sauce they did so smell,
Pies and roast beef so rare,
"Oh, Zooks!" says Nell, "we've acted well
In coming to Sledburn Fair."

80 WIDDECOMBE FAIR

"Tom Pearse, Tom Pearse, lend me your gray mare,"
All along, down along, out along, lee.
"For I want for to go to Widdecombe Fair,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

"And when shall I see again my gray mare?"
All along, down along, out along, lee.
"By Friday soon, or Saturday noon,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all."
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

Then Friday came and Saturday noon,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
But Tom Pearse's old mare hath not trotted home,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

So Tom Pearse he got up to the top o' the hill,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
And he seed his old mare down a-making her will,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

So Tom Pearse's old mare her took sick and her died,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
And Tom he sat down on a stone, and he cried
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

But this isn't the end o' this shocking affair,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
Nor, though they be dead, of the horrid career
Of Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

When the wind whistles cold on the moor of a night,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
Tom Pearse's old mare doth appear, gashly white,
Wi' Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

And all the long night be heard skirling and groans,
All along, down along, out along, lee.
From Tom Pearse's old mare in her rattling bones,
And from Bill Brewer, Jan Stewer, Peter Gurney, Peter Davy,
Dan'l Whiddon, Harry Hawk,
Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all.
_Old Uncle Tom Cobley and all._

81 GIPSIES

The snow falls deep; the forest lies alone;
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,[61]
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close in snow-like hovel warm;
There tainted mutton wastes upon the coals,
And the half-wasted dog squats close and rubs,
Then feels the heat too strong, and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare,
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away.
Tis thus they live--a picture to the place,
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

JOHN CLARE

82 THE IDLERS

The gipsies lit their fires by the chalk-pit gate anew,
And the hoppled horses supped in the further dusk and dew;
The gnats flocked round the smoke like idlers as they were
And through the goss and bushes the owls began to churr.

An ell above the woods the last of sunset glowed
With a dusky gold that filled the pond beside the road;
The cricketers had done, the leas all silent lay,
And the carrier's clattering wheels went past and died away.

The gipsies lolled and gossiped, and ate their stolen swedes,
Made merry with mouth-organs, worked toys with piths of reeds:
The old wives puffed their pipes, nigh as black as their hair,
And not one of them all seemed to know the name of care.

EDMUND BLUNDEN

83 THE WRAGGLE TAGGLE GIPSIES

There were three gipsies a-come to my door,
And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O!
One sang high, and another sang low,
And the other sang, Bonny, bonny Biscay, O!

Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown
And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged rags about our door--
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

It was late last night, when my lord came home,
Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on every hand:
"She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"O saddle to me my milk-white steed.
Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

O he rode high and he rode low,
He rode through woods and copses too,
Until he came to an open field,
And there he espied his a-lady, O!

"What makes you leave your house and land?
What makes you leave your money, O?
What makes you leave your new-wedded lord;
To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O?"

"What care I for my house and my land?
What care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new-wedded lord?
I'm off with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
And to-night you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O?
For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

84 WHERE DO THE GIPSIES COME FROM?

Where do the gipsies come from?
The gipsies come from Egypt.
The fiery sun begot them,
Their dam was the desert dry.
She lay there stripped and basking,
And gave them suck for the asking,
And an Emperor's bone to play with,
Whenever she heard them cry.

What did the gipsies do there?
They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
So tall it touched the sky.
They buried him deep inside it,
Then let what would betide it,
They saddled their lean-ribbed ponies
And left him there to die.

What do the gipsies do now?
They follow the Sun, their father,
They follow the Sun, their father,
They know not whither nor why.
Whatever they find they take it,
And if it's a law they break it.
So never you talk to a gipsy,
Or look in a gipsy's eye.

H. H. BASHFORD

85 BEGGARS

What noise of viols is so sweet
As when our merry clappers ring?
What mirth doth want when beggars meet?
A beggar's life is for a king.
Eat, drink, and play, sleep when we list,
Go where we will--so stocks be missed.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

The world is ours, and ours alone;
For we alone have world at will.
We purchase not--all is our own;
Both fields and street we beggars fill.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

FRANK DAVIDSON

86 "WEEP, WEEP, YE WOODMEN!"

Weep, weep, ye woodmen! wail;
Your hands with sorrow wring!
Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lie his primer and his beads,
His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross:
Now cast on flowers fresh and green.

And, as they fall, shed tears and say
Well, well-a-day! well, well-a-day!
Thus cast ye flowers fresh, and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.

ANTHONY MUNDAY

87 MY HANDSOME GILDEROY

Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull[62] his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my joy and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twe[63] charming een he had,
A breath as sweet as rose;
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gained the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy,
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born
Baith in one toun together;
We scant[64] were seven years beforn
We gan to luve each other;
Our daddies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
'Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith! I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I received with joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.

Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time
Among the leaves sae green:
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife.
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars[65] mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,
The tears they wet mine ee;
I gave tull him a parting luik,
"My benison gang wi' thee!
God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy!"

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was feared in ev'ry toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland loun:
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;
At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,
To 'reave of life for ox or ass,
For sheep, or horse, or mare:
Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy;
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff[66] Gilderoy had done amisse,
He mought hae banisht been,
Ah, what fair cruelty is this,
To hang sike handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,
They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was so trim a boy:
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away;
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comely clay;
And siker[67] in a grave sae deep
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.

BEASTS OF THE FIELD FOWLS OF THE AIR.

88 BINGO

The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,
And his name was Little Bingo.
B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And his name was Little Bingo.

The miller he bought a cask of ale,
And he called it right good Stingo.
S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he called it right good Stingo.

The miller he went to town one day,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!

89 THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOG

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 folks 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 licked me for kindness--my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a 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 return with my poor dog Tray.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

90 POOR OLD HORSE

My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,
My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;
But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,
My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._

Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,
To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;
But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,
In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._

Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay
That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;
But now there's no such doing can I find at all,
I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._

"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,
You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.
You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,
So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."
_Poor old horse: poor old horse._

My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,
My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,
Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,
Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.
_Poor old horse: poor old horse_.

91 AY ME, ALAS, HEIGH HO!

_Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!_
Thus doth Messalina go
Up and down the house a-crying,
For her monkey lies a-dying.
Death, thou art too cruel
To bereave her of her jewel,
Or to make a seizure
Of her only treasure.
If her monkey die,
She will sit and cry,
_Fie fie fie fie fie!_

92 THE FLY

Once musing as I sat,
And candle burning by,
When all were hushed, I might discern
A simple, sely fly;
That flew before mine eyes,
With free rejoicing heart,
And here and there with wings did play,
As void of pain and smart.
Sometime by me she sat
When she had played her fill;
And ever when she rested had
About she fluttered still.
When I perceived her well
Rejoicing in her place,
"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and eke
O worm in happy case!
Which of us two is best?
I that have reason? No:
But thou that reason art without,
And therefore void of woe.
I live, and so dost thou:
But I live all in pain,
And subject am to one, alas!
That makes my grief her gain.
Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;
No love doth thee torment.
A happy thing for me it were
(If God were so content)
That thou with pen were placèd here,
And I sat in thy place:
Then I should joy as thou dost now,
And thou should'st wail thy case.

BARNABE GOOGE

93 BÊTE HUMAINE

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,
I saw the world awake; and as the ray
Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,
Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:
With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.
I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain
And horror, at my own careless cruelty,
That in an idle moment I had slain
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:
Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...
Nay, they
Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?

FRANCIS BRETT YOUNG

94 THE LAMB

Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream, and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are callèd by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!

WILLIAM BLAKE

95 THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee;
That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.

But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,
The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head
Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,
Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:
"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair
Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."