Chapter XVI: Part VII: The Hermit of the Wood (1)

'THIS Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk of marineres That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve-- He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?"

[Approacheth the ship with wonder.]

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said-- "And they answered not our cheer! the with The planks look warped and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along: When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look" (The Pilot made reply) "I am a-feared"--"Push on, push on!" Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.

[The ship suddenly sinketh.]

Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.

[The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned, My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.

I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. "Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.

[The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit crossed his brow. "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say-- What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.

[And ever and anon throughout his future life and agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,]

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns; And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door The wedding-guests are there; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!--

To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends, And youths and maidens gay!

[And to teach by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.'

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.

_ANONYMOUS_

THE VICAR OF BRAY

IN good King Charles's golden days, When loyalty no harm meant, A zealous High Churchman was I, And so I got preferment; To teach my flock I never miss'd, Kings were by God appointed; And damn'd are those who do resist, Or touch the Lord's anointed.

And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

When royal James obtained the crown, And Pop'ry came in fashion, The penal laws I hooted down, And read the Declaration; The Church of Rome I found would fit Full well my constitution; And had become a Jesuit, But' for the Revolution.

When William was our King declared, To ease the nation's grievance, With this new wind about I steered, And swore to him allegiance; Old principles I did revoke, Set conscience at a distance; Passive obedience was a joke, A jest was non-resistance.

When gracious Anne became our Queen, The Church of England's glory, Another face of things was seen, And I became a Tory; Occasional Conformists base, I damn'd their moderation, And thought the Church in danger was, By such prevarication.

When George in pudding-time came o'er, And moderate men looked big, sir, I turned a cat-in-pan once more, And so became a Whig, sir; And thus preferment I procured, From our new faith's defender, And almost every day abjured The Pope and the Pretender.

The illustrious house of Hanover, And Protestant succession, To these I do allegiance swear, While they can keep possession; For in my faith and loyalty I never more will falter, And George my lawful King shall be, Until the times do alter.

And this is law, that I'll maintain, Until my dying day, sir, That whatsoever King shall reign, I'll be the Vicar of Bray, sir.

_WILLIAM JULIUS MICKLE_

THERE 'S NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE

BUT are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. There 's nae luck about the house, There 's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa'.

Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin 's at the door? Rax down my cloak--I'll to the key, And see him come ashore. Rise up and make a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat.

And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stockins white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman He likes to see them braw. There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair, Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare.

Bring down to me my bigonet, My bishop's sattin gown, For I maun tell the bailie's wife, That Colin's come to town. My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stockins pearl blue It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true.

Sae true his heart, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't As he comes up the stair. And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: In troth, I'm like to greet.

_ANONYMOUS_

THE GIRL I LEFT BEHIND ME

I'm lonesome since I cross'd the hill, And o'er the moor and valley; Such heavy thoughts my heart do fill, Since parting with my Sally. I seek no more the fine or gay, For each does but remind me How swift the hours did pass away, With the girl I've left behind me.

Oh, ne'er shall I forget the night The stars were bright above me, And gently lent their silv'ry light When first she vowed to love me. But now I'm bound to Brighton camp Kind Heaven, then, pray guide me, And send me safely back again To the girl I've left behind me.

My mind her form shall still retain, In sleeping, or in waking, Until I see my love again, For whom my heart is breaking. If ever I return that way, And she should not decline me, I evermore will live and stay With the girl I've left behind me.

_SIR DAVID DALRYMPLE_

EDWARD! EDWARD!

'WHY does your brand so drop with blood? Edward! Edward! Why does your brand so drop with blood? And why so sad go ye, O?'

'O! I have killed my hawk so good, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my hawk so good, And I have no more but he, O!'

'Your hawk's blood was never so red, Edward! Edward! Your hawk's blood was never so red, My dear son, I tell thee, O!'

'O! I have killed my red roan steed, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my red roan steed, That once was fair and free, O!'

'Your steed was old and ye have got more, Edward! Edward! Your steed was old and ye have got more,-- Some other dule you drie, O!'

'O! I have killed my father dear, Mother! Mother! O! I have killed my father dear, Alas, and woe is me, O!'

'And what penance will ye drie for that? Edward! Edward? And what penance will ye drie for that? My dear son, now tell me, O!'

I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mother! Mother! I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O!'

'And what will you do with your towers and your hall? Edward! Edward! And what will you do with your towers and your hall? They were so fair to see, O!'

'I'll let them stand till they down fall, Mother! Mother! I'll let them stand till they down fall, For here never more must I be, O!'

'And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? Edward! Edward! And what will you leave to your bairns and your wife? When you go over the sea, O!'

'The world's room, let them beg through life, Mother! Mother! The world's room, let them beg through life, For them never more will I see, O!

'And what will you leave to your own mother dear? Edward! Edward! And what will you leave to your own mother dear? My dear son, now tell me, O!'

'The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Mother! Mother! The curse of hell from me shall you bear, Such counsels you gave to me, O!'

_THOMAS PERCY_

NANNY, WILT THOU GO WITH ME?

O NANNY, wilt thou go with me, Nor sigh to leave the flaunting town? Can silent glens have charms for thee, The lowly cot and russet gown? No longer drest in silken sheen, No longer deck'd with jewels rare,-- Say, canst thou quit each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, when thou'rt far away, Wilt thou not cast a wish behind? Say, canst thou face the parching ray, Nor shrink before the wintry wind? Oh, can that soft and gentle mien Extremes of hardship learn to bear, Nor sad, regret each courtly scene, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

O Nanny, canst thou love so true, Through perils keen with me to go, Or when thy swain mishap shall rue, To share with him the pang of woe? Say, should disease or pain befall, Wilt thou assume the nurse's care Nor wistful those gay scenes recall, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

And when at last thy love shall die, Wilt thou receive his parting breath, Wilt thou repress each struggling sigh, And cheer with smiles the bed of death? And wilt thou o'er his breathless clay Strew flowers and drop the tender tear, Nor then regret those scenes so gay, Where thou wert fairest of the fair?

THE FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY

IT was a friar of orders gray Walk'd forth to tell his beads; And he met with a lady fair Clad in a pilgrim's weeds.

'Now Christ thee save, thou reverend friar, I pray thee tell to me, If ever at yon holy shrine My true love thou didst see.'

'And how should I know your true-love From many another one?' 'Oh, by his cockle-hat and staff, And by his sandal shoon.

'But chiefly by his face and mien, That were so fair to view; His flaxen locks that sweetly curl'd, And eyes of lovely blue.'

'O lady, he is dead and gone! Lady, he's dead and gone! And at his head a green-grass turf, And at his heels a stone.

Within these holy cloisters long He languish'd, and he died Lamenting of a lady's love, And 'plaining of her pride.

They bore him barefaced on his bier Six proper youths and tall, And many a tear bedew'd his grave Within yon kirk-yard wall.'

And art thou dead, thou gentle youth And art thou dead and gone; And didst thou die for love of me? Break, cruel heart of stone!'

'Oh, weep not, lady, weep not so, Some ghostly comfort seek; Let not vain sorrows rive thy heart, Nor tears bedew thy cheek.'

Oh, do not, do not, holy friar, My sorrow now reprove; For I have lost the sweetest youth That e'er won lady's love.

And now, alas! for thy sad loss I'll ever weep and sigh; For thee I only wish'd to live, For thee I wish to die.'

'Weep no more, lady, weep no more, Thy sorrow is in vain; For violets pluck'd, the sweetest shower Will ne'er make grow again.

'Our joys as winged dreams do fly, Why then should sorrow last? Since grief but aggravates thy loss, Grieve not for what is past.'

'Oh, say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; For since my true-love died for me, 'Tis meet my tears should flow.

'And will he never come again? Will he ne'er come again? Ah no, he is dead and laid in his grave, For ever to remain.

'His cheek was redder than the rose; The comeliest youth was he; But he is dead and laid in his grave: Alas, and woe is me!'

'Sigh no more, lady, sigh no more; Men were deceivers ever; One foot on sea and one on land, To one thing constant never.

'Hadst thou been fond, he had been false, And left thee sad and heavy; For young men ever were fickle found, Since summer trees were leafy.'

'Now say not so, thou holy friar, I pray thee say not so; My love he had the truest heart, Oh, he was ever true!

'And art thou dead, thou much lov'd youth, And didst thou die for me? Then farewell, home; for evermore A pilgrim I will be.'

'But first upon my true-love's grave My weary limbs I'll lay, And thrice I'll kiss the green-grass turf That wraps his breathless clay.'

'Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while Beneath this cloister wall; See, through the thorn blows cold the wind And drizzly rain doth fall.'

Oh, stay me not, thou holy friar; Oh, stay me not, I pray; No drizzly rain that falls on me Can wash my fault away.'

'Yet stay, fair lady, turn again, And dry those pearly tears' For see, beneath this gown of grey Thy own true-love appears.

'Here, forced by grief and hopeless love, These holy weeds I sought, And here amid these lonely walls To end my days I thought.

'But haply, for my year of grace Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love, No longer would I stay.'

'Now farewell grief, and welcome joy Once more unto my heart; For since I have found thee, lovely youth, We never more will part.'

ROBERT SOUTHEY

THE INCHCAPE ROCK

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The ship was 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 How'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The worthy Abbot of Aberbrothock 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 surge's swell, The mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And bless'd the Abbot of Aberbrothock.

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 joyaunce in the 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 fixed 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 Inch cape Rock, And I'll plague the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'

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 sank the Bell with a gurgling sound, The bubbles arose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothock.'

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 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.'

Canst 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,-- 'Oh Christ! it is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair; He curst himself in his despair; But the waves rush in on every side, And the vessel sinks beneath the tide.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A WELL there is in the west country, And a clearer one never was seen; There is not a wife in the west country But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside, And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne; Joyfully he drew nigh, For from cock-crow he had been travelling, And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear, For thirsty and hot was he, And he sat down upon the bank Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by At the Well to fill his pail; On the Well-side he rested it, And he bade the stranger hail.

'Now art thou a bachelor, stranger?' quoth he, For an if thou hast a wife, The happiest draught thou hast drunk this day That ever thou didst in thy life.

'Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been? For an if she have, I'll venture my life She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne.'

I have left a good woman who never was here,' The stranger he made reply, 'But that my draught should be the better for that, I pray you answer me why?'

'St. Keyne,' quoth the Cornish-man, 'many a time Drank of this crystal Well, And before the angel summon'd her, She laid on the water a spell.

If the husband, of this gifted Well, Shall drink before his wife, A happy man thenceforth is he, For he shall be master for life.

'But if the wife shall drink of it first, God help the husband then!' The stranger stoopt to the Well of St. Keyne, And drank of the water again.

'You drank of the Well I warrant betimes?' He to the Cornish-man said: But the Cornish-man smiled as the stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head.

'I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done, And left my wife in the porch; But I' faith she had been wiser than me, For she took a bottle to church.'

THE BATTLE OF BLENHEIM

IT was a summer evening, Old Kaspar's work was done, And he before his cottage door Was sitting in the sun, And by sported on the green His little grandchild Wilhelmine.

She saw her brother Peterkin Roll something large and round, Which he beside the rivulet In playing there had found; He came to ask what he had found, That was so large, and smooth, and round.

Old Kaspar took it from the boy, Who stood expectant by; And then the old man shook his head, And with a natural sigh, 'Tis some poor fellow's skull,' said he, 'Who fell in that great victory.

'I find them in the garden, For there's many here about; And often when I go to plough, The ploughshare turns them out! For many thousand men,' said he, Were slain in that great victory.'

Now tell us what 'twas all about,' Young Peterkin he cries; And little Wilhelmine looks up With wonder-waiting eyes; Now tell us all about the war, And what they fought each other for.'

It was the English,' Kaspar cried, Who put the French to rout; But what they fought each other for, I could not well make out; But everybody said,' quoth he, That 'twas a famous victory.

My father lived at Blenheim then, Yon little stream hard by; They burnt his dwelling to the ground, And he was forced to fly; So with his wife and child he fled, Nor had he where to rest his head.

With fire and sword the country round Was wasted far and wide, And many a tender mother then, And new-born baby, died; But things like that, you know, must be At every famous victory.

They say it was a shocking sight After the field was won; For many thousand bodies here Lay rotting in the sun; But things like that, you know, must be After a famous victory;

Great praise the Duke of Marlbro' won, And our good Prince Eugene.'-- 'Why, 'twas a very wicked thing!' Said little Wilhelmine. Nay--nay--my little girl,' quoth he, It was a famous victory;

'And everybody praised the Duke Who this great fight did win.' 'But what good came of it at last?' Quoth little Peterkin. 'Why, that I cannot tell,' said he, 'But 'twas a famous victory.'

FATHER WILLIAM

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And pleasures with youth pass away, And yet you lament not the days that are gone, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth could not last; I thought of the future, whatever I did, That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away; You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied; Let the cause thy attention engage: In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.

_MRS. COCKBURN_

THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST

I'VE seen the smiling Of Fortune beguiling; I've felt all its favours, and found its decay: Sweet was its blessing, Kind its caressing; But now it is fled--it is fled far away.

I've seen the forest Adorned the foremost With flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay; Sae bonny was their blooming! Their scent the air perfuming! But now they are withered and weeded away.

I've seen the morning With gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day, I've seen Tweed's silver streams, Shining in the sunny beams, Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.

O fickle Fortune, Why this cruel sporting? Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day? Nae mair your smiles can cheer me, Nae mair your frowns can fear me; For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

_WILLIAM WORDSWORTH_

LUCY GRAY

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 fagot 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 daybreak on a hill they stood That overlooked the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood, A furlong from the door.

And, turning homeward, now they 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 The 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.

WE ARE SEVEN

A SIMPLE child That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair; --Her beauty made me glad.

Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?' 'How many? Seven in all,' she said, And wondering looked at me.

'And where are they? I pray you tell.' She answered, 'Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

'Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.'

'You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven!--I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be?'

Then did the little maid reply, 'Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree.'

'You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five.'

'Their graves are green, they may be seen,' The little maid replied, Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

'My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit-- I sit and sing to them.

'And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there.

'The first that died was little Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain: And then she went away.

'So in the churchyard she was laid; And all the summer dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

'And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.'

'How many are you, then,' said I, 'If they two are in heaven?' The little maiden did reply, 'O master! we are seven.'

'But they are dead: those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away: for still The little maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'

SHE DWELT AMONG UNTRODDEN WAYS

SHE dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I TRAVELL'D among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, the melancholy dream! Nor will I quit thy shore A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

_SIR WALTER SCOTT_

LOCHINVAR

O, YOUNG Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! 'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

CORONACH

HE is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest, The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are hoary, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory. The autumn winds rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

A WEARY LOT IS THINE

'A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine! A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green,-- No more of me you knew, My love! No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.' He turned his charger as he spake, Upon the river shore, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said Adieu for evermore, My love. And adieu for evermore.'

ALLEN-A-DALE

ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning. Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side. The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home: 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and Commons!

Come from deep glen, and From mountain so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. Come every hill-plaid, and True heart that wears one; Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one!

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar. Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting-gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended: Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded. Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster; Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume, Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set; Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!

SONG FROM 'THE PIRATE'

LOVE wakes and weeps While Beauty sleeps! O for music's softest numbers, To prompt a theme For Beauty's dream, Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

Through groves of palm Sigh gales of balm, Fire-flies on the air are wheeling; While through the gloom Comes soft perfume, The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live! No dreams can give A shadowed bliss, the real excelling; No longer sleep, From lattice peep, And list the tale that Love is telling!

ROSABELLE

'O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle ladye, deign to stay! Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch, Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

The blackening wave is edged with white; To inch and rock the sea-mews fly; The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite, Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

Last night the gifted Seer did view A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay; Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch; Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?

''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir To-night at Roslin leads the ball, But that my ladye-mother there Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

'Tis not because the ring they ride, And Lindesay at the ring rides well, But that my sire the wine will chide If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'

--O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie, Each Baron, for a sable shroud, Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire within, around, Deep sacristy and altar's pale; Shone every pillar foliage-bound, And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high, Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair-- So still they blaze, when fate is nigh The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle; Each one the holy vault doth hold But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.

And each Saint Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell; But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

PROUD MAISIE

PROUD Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird, When shall I marry me?'-- 'When six braw gentlemen Kirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed, Birdie, say truly?'-- 'The grey-headed sexton That delves the grave duly. The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady; The owl from the steeple sing Welcome, proud lady.'

_THOMAS CAMPBELL_

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

A CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound, Cries,'Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound To row us o'er the ferry.'

'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?' 'Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

'And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together; For, should he find us in the glen My blood would stain the heather.

'His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy island wight, 'I'll go, my chief--I'm ready It is not for your silver bright; But for your winsome lady:

'And by my word, the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind, And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men, Their trampling sounded nearer.

Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, 'Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies, But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her,-- When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar Of waters fast prevailing; Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed through storm and shade, His child he did discover: One lovely hand she stretched for aid, And one was round her lover.

Come back! come back!' he cried in grief, Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief, My daughter!--oh! my daughter!'

'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing; The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM

OUR bugles sang truce--for the night-cloud had lowered And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw, By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain, At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw, And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array, Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track; 'Twas autumn--and sunshine arose on the way To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore From my home and my weeping friends never to part; My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er, And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us--rest, thou art weary and worn'; And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.

EXILE OF ERIN

THERE came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill: For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill. But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger, The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee; But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me. Never again in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me? Never again shall my brothers embrace me? They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood? Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood? And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all? Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure? Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollection suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw: Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing! Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh! Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields--sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion Erin mavournin!--Erin go bragh!

YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND

YE mariners of England, That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe; And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave; For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell, Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain wave, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow!

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return; Then, then, ye ocean warriors, Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

OF Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone: By each gun the lighted brand In a bold, determined hand; And the prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their Bulwarks on the brine, While the sign of battle flew O'er the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime, As they drifted on their path; There was silence deep as death, And the boldest held his breath For a time.

But the might of England flushed, To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feebler cheer the Dane To our cheering sent us back; Their shots along the deep slowly boom: Then ceased, and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale, Light the gloom.

Out spoke the victor then, As he hailed them o'er the wave: 'Ye are brothers! we are men! And we conquer but to save: So peace instead of death let us bring; But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, With the crews, at England's feet, And make submission meet To our King.'

Then Denmark blessed our chief, That he gave her wounds repose; And the sounds of joy and grief From her people wildly rose, As death withdrew his shades from the day; While the sun looked smiling bright O'er a wide and woeful sight, Where the fires of funeral light Died away.

Now joy, Old England raise, For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar Let us think of them that sleep, Full many a fathom deep, By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride Once so faithful and so true, On the deck of fame that died, With the gallant good Riou: Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave; While the billow mournful rolls, And the mermaid's song condoles, Singing glory to the souls Of the brave.

NAPOLEON AND THE SAILOR

NAPOLEON'S banners at Boulogne Arm'd in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffer'd him--I know not how-- Unprison'd on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over; With envy they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banish'd sleep, He saw one morning--dreaming--doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The livelong day laborious; lurking Until he launch'd a tiny boat By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description wretched: such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventur'd on a pond, Or cross'd a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt sea-field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarr'd, uncompass'd, and unkeel'd, No sail--no rudder.

From neighbouring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipp'd he would have pass'd The foaming billows-- But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And in his wonted attitude, Address'd the stranger:--

Rash man that wouldst yon channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashion'd; Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassion'd.'

'I have no sweetheart,' said the lad; But--absent long from one another-- Great was the longing that I had To see my mother!'

'And so thou shalt,' Napoleon said, 'Ye've both my favour fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son.'

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And with a flag of truce commanded He should be shipp'd to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparte.

THE PARROT

A PARROT, from the Spanish main, Full young and early caged came o'er, With bright wings, to the bleak domain Of Mullah's shore.

To spicy groves where he had won His plumage of resplendent hue, His native fruits, and skies, and sun, He bade adieu.

For these he changed the smoke of turf, A heathery land and misty sky, And turned on rocks and raging surf His golden eye.

But petted in our climate cold, He lived and chattered many a day: Until with age, from green and gold His wings grew grey.

At last when blind, and seeming dumb, He scolded, laugh'd, and spoke no more, A Spanish stranger chanced to come To Mullah's shore;

He hail'd the bird in Spanish speech, The bird in Spanish speech replied; Flapp'd round the cage with joyous screech, Dropt down, and died.

HOHENLINDEN

ON Linden when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow; And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight When the drum beat at dead of night, Commanding fires of death to light The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, Each horseman drew his battle blade, And furious every charger neighed To join the dreadful revelry.