Mother, Home and Sweetheart

I SING OF A MAIDEN

I sing of a maiden
That is makeless,13
King of all Kings
To her son she ches.14

He came all so still
Where his mother was,
As dew in April
That falleth on the grass.

He came all so still
To his mother’s bower,
As dew in April
That falleth on the flower.

He came all so still
Where his mother lay,
As dew in April
That falleth on the spray.

Mother and maiden
Was never none but she;
Well may such a lady
God’s mother be.

LULLABY

Upon my lap my sovereign sits
And sucks upon my breast;
Meantime his love maintains my life
And gives my sense her rest.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

When thou hast taken thy repast,
Repose, my babe, on me;
So may thy mother and thy nurse
Thy cradle also be.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

I grieve that duty doth not work
All that my wishing would,
Because I would not be to thee
But in the best I should.
Sing lullaby, my little boy,
Sing lullaby, mine only joy!

Yet as I am, and as I may,
I must and will be thine,
Though all too little for thy self
Vouchsafing to be mine.
  Sing lullaby, my little boy,
  Sing lullaby, mine only joy!
        Richard Rowlands

THE LITTLE BLACK BOY

My mother bore me in the southern wild,
And I am black, but O! my soul is white;
White as an angel is the English child,
But I am black, as if bereaved of light.

My mother taught me underneath a tree,
And, sitting down before the heat of day,
She took me on her lap and kissèd me,
And, pointing to the east, began to say:

“Look on the rising sun; there God does live,
And gives his light, and gives his heat away;
And flowers and trees and beasts and men receive
Comfort in morning, joy in the noonday.

“And we are put on earth a little space,
That we may learn to bear the beams of love;
And these black bodies and this sunburnt face
Is but a cloud, and like a shady grove.

“For when our souls have learned the heat to bear,
The cloud will vanish; we shall hear his voice,
Saying: ‘Come out from the grove, my love and care,
And round my golden tent like lambs rejoice.’”

Thus did my mother say, and kissèd me;
And thus I say to little English boy.
When I from black and he from white cloud free,
And round the tent of God like lambs we joy,

I’ll shade him from the heat, till he can bear
To lean in joy upon our Father’s knee;
And then I’ll stand and stroke his silver hair,
And be like him, and he will then love me.
William Blake

THE ECHOING GREEN

The Sun does arise,
And make happy the skies;
The merry bells ring
To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around
To the bells’ cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk,
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
“Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth time were seen
On the Echoing Green.”

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mothers
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest,
And sport no more seen
On the darkening Green.
William Blake

If I HAD BUT TWO LITTLE WINGS

If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I’d fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:
I’m always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one’s own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
  For though my sleep be gone,
Yet while ’tis dark, one shuts one’s lids,
   And still dreams on.
      Samuel Taylor Coleridge

I REMEMBER

I remember, I remember,
The house where I was born,
The little window where the sun
Came peeping in at morn;
He never came a wink too soon,
Nor brought too long a day;
But now, I often wish the night
Had borne my breath away.

I remember, I remember,
The roses, red and white,
The violets, and the lily-cups!—
Those flowers made of light!
The lilacs where the robin built,
And where my brother set
The laburnum on his birth-day,—
The tree is living yet!

I remember, I remember,
Where I was used to swing,
And thought the air must rush as fresh
To swallows on the wing;
My spirit flew in feathers then,
That is so heavy now,
And summer pools could hardly cool
The fever on my brow!

I remember, I remember,
The fir trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky:
It was a childish ignorance,
But now ’tis little joy
To know I’m farther off from Heaven
Than when I was a boy.
Thomas Hood

MIDNIGHT ON THE GREAT WESTERN

In the third-class seat sat the journeying boy,
And the roof-lamp’s oily flame
Played down on his listless form and face,
Bewrapt past knowing to what he was going,
Or whence he came.

In the band of his hat the journeying boy
Had a ticket stuck; and a string
Around his neck bore the key of his box,
That twinkled gleams of the lamp’s sad beams
Like a living thing.

What past can be yours, O journeying boy
Towards a world unknown,
Who calmly, as if incurious quite
On all at stake, can undertake
This plunge alone?

Knows your soul a sphere, O journeying boy,
Our rude realms far above,
Whence with spacious vision you mark and mete
This region of sin that you find you in,
But are not of?
Thomas Hardy

THE RUNAWAY

Once when the sun of the year was beginning to fall
We stopped by a mountain pasture to say, “Whose colt?
A little Morgan had one forefoot on the wall,
The other curled at his heart. He dipped his head
And snorted to us; and then he had to bolt.
We heard the muffled thunder when he fled
And we saw him or thought we saw him dim and grey
Like a shadow against the curtain of falling flakes.
We said, “The little fellow’s afraid of the snow.
He isn’t winter broken.” “It isn’t play
With the little fellow at all. He’s running away.
I doubt if even his mother could tell him, ‘Sakes,
It’s only weather.’ He’d think she didn’t know.
Where is his mother? He can’t be out alone.”
And now he comes again with a clatter of stone
And mounts the wall again with whited eyes
And all his tail that isn’t hair up straight.
He shudders his coat as if to throw off flies.
Whoever it is that leaves him out so late
When everything else has gone to stall and bin
Ought to be told to go and bring him in.
Robert Frost

ON EASTNOR KNOLL

Silent are the woods, and the dim green boughs are
Hushed in the twilight: yonder, in the path through
The apple orchard, is a tired plough-boy
Calling the cows home.

A bright white star blinks, the pale moon rounds, but
Still the red, lurid wreckage of the sunset
Smoulders in smoky fire, and burns on
The misty hill-tops.

Ghostly it grows, and darker, the burning
Fades into smoke, and now the gusty oaks are
A silent army of phantoms thronging
A land of shadows.
John Masefield

“HOME NO MORE HOME TO ME”

Home no more home to me, whither must I wander?
Hunger my driver, I go where I must.
Cold blows the winter wind over hill and heather;
Thick drives the rain, and my roof is in the dust.
Loved of wise men was the shade of my roof-tree.
The true word of welcome was spoken in the door—
Dear days of old, with the faces in the firelight,
Kind folks of old, you come again no more.

Home was home then, my dear, full of kindly faces,
Home was home then, my dear, happy for the child,
Fire and the windows bright glittered on the moorland;
Song, tuneful song, built a palace in the wild.
Now, when day dawns on the brow of the moorland,
Lone stands the house, and the chimney-stone is cold.
Lone let it stand, now the friends are all departed,
The kind hearts, the true hearts, that loved the place of old.

Spring shall come, come again, calling up the moor-fowl,
Spring shall bring the sun and rain, bring the bees and flowers;
Red shall the heather bloom over hill and valley,
Soft flow the stream through the even-flowing hours;
Fair the day shine as it shone on my childhood—
Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney—
But I go for ever and come again no more.
Robert Louis Stevenson

DALYAUNCE

Mundus.Welcome, fayre chylde, what is thy name?

Infans.I wote not, syr, withouten blame.
But ofte tyme my moder in her game
Callèd me dalyaunce.

Mundus.Dalyaunce, my swetė chylde,
It is a name that is ryght wylde,
For whan thou waxest olde.
It is a name of no substaunce
But, my fayre chylde, what woldest thou have?

Infans.Syr of some comforte I you crave—
Mete and clothe my lyfe to save:
And I your true servaunt shall be.

Mundus.Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge.
I wyll thee fynde 15 whyle thou art yinge 16
So thou wylte be obedyent to my byddynge.
These garments gaye I gyve to thee.
And also I gyve to thee a name,
And clepe 17 thee Wanton, in every game;
Tyll XIII yere be come and gone,
And than come agayne to me.

[Infans is now called Wanton.]

Wanton.Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye,
For now I purpose me to playe.

Mundus.Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye.
All rychelesnesse 18 is kynde 19 for thee.

[Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.]

Wanton.Aha, Wanton is my name!
I can many a quayntė game.
Lo, my toppe I dryve in same,
Se, it torneth rounde!
I can with my scorgė-stycke
My felowe upon the heed hytte,
And wyghtly 20 from hym make a skyppe
And blere 21 on hym my tonge.
If brother or syster do me chyde
I wyll scratche and also byte.
I can crye, and also kyke,
And mocke them all berewe.
If fader or mother wyll me smyte,
I wyll wryngė 22 with my lyppe;
And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe;
And call my damė shrewe.
Aha, a newe game have I founde:
Se this gynne 23 it renneth rounde;
And here another have I founde,
And yet mo 24 can I fynde.
I can mowė 25 on a man;
And make a lesynge 26 well I can,
And mayntayne it ryght well than.
This connynge 27 came me of kynde.
Ye, syrs,28 I can well gelde a snayle;
And catche a cowe by the tayle;
This is a fayre connynge!
I can daunce, and also skyppe;
I can playe at the chery pytte;
And I can wystell you a fytte,29
Syres, in a whylowe ryne.30
Ye, syrs, and every daye
Whan I to scole shall take the waye
Some good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye,
Perys 31 and plommes to plucke.
I can spye a sparowes nest.
I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest,
For there begynneth a sory fest 32
Whan the mayster sholde lyfte my docke.33
But, syrs, whan I was seven yere of age,
I was sent to the Worlde to takė wage.
And this seven yere I have ben his page
And kept his commaundėment....

CHRISTMAS AT SEA

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor’wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But ’twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops’l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So’s we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every ‘longshore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer
For it’s just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard’s was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother’s silver spectacles, my father’s silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessèd Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
“All hands to loose topgallant sails,” I heard the captain call,
“By the Lord, she’ll never stand it,” our first mate, Jackson, cried.
... “It’s the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,” he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good.
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter’s day was ending, in the entry of the night,
We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old.
Robert Louis Stevenson

TWILIGHT

The twilight is sad and cloudy,
The wind blows wild and free,
And like the wings of sea-birds
Flash the white caps of the sea.

But in the fisherman’s cottage
There shines a ruddier light,
And a little face at the window
Peers out into the night.

Close, close it is pressed to the window,
As if those childish eyes
Were looking into the darkness,
To see some form arise.

And a woman’s waving shadow
Is passing to and fro,
Now rising to the ceiling,
Now bowing and bending low.

What tale do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, bleak and wild,
As they beat at the crazy casement,
Tell to that little child?

And why do the roaring ocean,
And the night-wind, wild and bleak,
As they beat at the heart of the mother,
Drive the colour from her cheek?
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

“HOW’S MY BOY?”

“Ho, sailor of the sea!
How’s my boy—my boy?”
“What’s your boy’s name, good wife,
And in what good ship sailed he?”
“My boy John—
He that went to sea—
What care I for the ship, sailor?
My boy’s my boy to me.

“You come back from sea
And not know my John!
I might as well have asked some landsman
Yonder down in the town.
There’s not an ass in all the parish
But he knows my John.

“How’s my boy—my boy?
And unless you let me know,
I’ll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,
Brass button or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no!
Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton.”—
“Speak low, woman, speak low!”

“And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?
If I was loud as I am proud
I’d sing him o’er the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?”
“That good ship went down.”

“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I never was aboard her.
Be she afloat, or be she aground,
Sinking or swimming, I’ll be bound,
Her owners can afford her!
I say, how’s my John?”
“Every man on board went down,
Every man aboard her.”

“How’s my boy—my boy?
What care I for the men, sailor?
I’m not their mother—
How’s my boy—my boy?
Tell me of him and no other!
How’s my boy—my boy?”

Sydney Dobell

CAM’ YE BY?

Cam’ ye by the salmon fishers?
Cam’ ye by the roperee?
Saw ye a sailor laddie
Waiting on the coast for me?

I ken fahr 34 I’m gyain,35
I ken fahs 36 gyain wi’ me;
I ha’e a lad o’ my ain,
Ye daurna tack ’im fae 37 me.

Stockings of blue silk,
Shoes of patent leather,
Kid to tie them up,
And gold rings on his finger.

Oh for six o’clock!
Oh for seven I weary!
Oh for eight o’clock!
And then I’ll see my dearie.

MY BOY TAMMY

“Whar hae ye been a’ day, my boy Tammy?
Whar hae ye been a’ day, my boy Tammy?”
“I’ve been by burn and flow’ry brae,
Meadow green and mountain grey,
Courtin’ o’ this young thing just come frae her Mammy.”

“And whar gat ye that young thing, my boy Tammy?”
“I gat her down in yonder howe,38
Smiling on a broomy knowe,39
Herding ae wee Lamb and Ewe for her poor Mammy.”

“What said ye to the bonny bairn, my boy Tammy?”
“I hae a house, it cost me dear,
I’ve walth o’ plenishen and gear,40
Yese get it a’, war’t ten times mair, gin 41 ye will leave your Mammy.

“The smile gaed aff her bonny face—‘I mauna leave my Mammy!
She’s gi’en me meat, she’s gi’en me claes,42
She’s been my comfort a’ my days,
My Father’s death brought mony waes—I canna leave my Mammy.’”

“We’ll tak her hame and mak her fain, my ain kind-hearted Lammy,
We’ll gie her meat, we’ll gi’e her claes,
We’ll be her comfort a’ her days:”
The wee thing gi’es her hand, and says, “There, gang and ask my Mammy.”

“Has she been to kirk wi’ thee, my boy Tammy?”
“She has been to kirk wi’ me,
And the tear was in her ee,
But Oh! she’s but a young thing just come frae her Mammy.”

Hector Macneill

ROSY APPLE, LEMON, OR PEAR

Rosy apple, lemon, or pear,
Bunch of roses she shall wear;
Gold and silver by her side,
I know who will be the bride.
Take her by her lily-white hand,
Lead her to the altar;
Give her kisses,—one, two, three,—
Mother’s runaway daughter.

IN PRAISE OF ISABEL PENNELL

By Saint Mary, my lady,
Your mammy and your daddy
Brought forth a goodly baby!

My maiden Isabell,—
Reflaring 43 rosabell,
The flagrant camamell,

The ruddy rosary,
The sovereign rosemary,
The pretty strawberry,

The columbine, the nepte,44
The ieloffer 45 well set,
The proper violet,

Ennewèd, your colour
Is like the daisy flower
After the April shower!

Star of the morrow gray,
The blossom on the spray,
The freshest flower of May;

Maidenly demure,
Of womanhood the lure,
Wherefore I make you sure:

It were an heavenly health,
It were an endless wealth,
A life for God himself,

To hear this nightingale,
Among the birdės smale,
Warbling in the vale:—

Dug, dug,
Iug, iug,
Good year and good luck,
With chuk, chuk, chuk, chuk!
John Skelton

MY SWEET SWEETING

She is so proper and so pure,
Full stedfast, stabill and demure,
There is none such, ye may be sure,
As my swete sweting.

In all thys world, as thynketh me,
Is none so plesaunt to my e’e,
That I am glad soo ofte to see,
As my swete swetyng.

When I behold my swetyng swete,
Her face, her hands, her minion fete,
They seme to me there is none so mete,
As my swete swetyng.

Above all other prayse must I,
And love my pretty pygsnye,
For none I fynd so womanly
As my swete swetyng.

SWEET STAY-AT-HOME

Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Well-content,
Thou knowest of no strange continent:
Thou hast not felt thy bosom keep
A gentle motion with the deep;
Thou hast not sailed in Indian seas,
Where scent comes forth in every breeze.
Thou hast not seen the rich grape grow
For miles, as far as eyes can go;
Thou hast not seen a summer’s night
When maids could sew by a worm’s light;
Nor the North Sea in spring send out
Bright hues that like birds flit about
In solid cages of white ice—
Sweet Stay-at-Home, sweet Love-one-place.
Thou hast not seen black fingers pick
White cotton when the bloom is thick,
Nor heard black throats in harmony;
Nor hast thou sat on stones that lie
Flat on the earth, that once did rise
To hide proud kings from common eyes.
Thou hast not seen plains full of bloom
Where green things had such little room
They pleased the eye like fairer flowers—
Sweet Stay-at-Home, all these long hours.
Sweet Well-content, sweet Love-one-place,
Sweet, simple maid, bless thy dear face;
For thou hast made more homely stuff
Nurture thy gentle self enough;
I love thee for a heart that’s kind—
Not for the knowledge in thy mind.
William H. Davies

WAITING

Rich in the waning light she sat
While the fierce rain on the window spat.
The yellow lamp-glow lit her face,
Shadows cloaked the narrow place
She sat adream in. Then she’d look
Idly upon an idle book;
Anon would rise and musing peer
Out at the misty street and drear;
Or with her loosened dark hair play,
Hiding her fingers’ snow away;
And, singing softly, would sing on
When the desire of song had gone.
“O lingering day!” her bosom sighed,
“O laggard Time!” each motion cried.
Last she took the lamp and stood
Rich in its flood,
And looked and looked again at what
Her longing fingers’ zeal had wrought;
And turning then did nothing say,
Hiding her thoughts away.
John Freeman

THE SICK CHILD

Child.O Mother, lay your hand on my brow!
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?

Mother.Fear not at all: the night is still.
Nothing is here that means you ill—
Nothing but lamps the whole town through,
And never a child awake but you.

Child.Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,
Some of the things are so great and near,
Some are so small and far away,
I have a fear that I cannot say.
What have I done, and what do I fear,
And why are you crying, mother dear?

Mother.Out in the city, sounds begin.
Thank the kind God, the carts come in!
An hour or two more, and God is so kind,
The day shall be blue in the window blind,
Then shall my child go sweetly asleep,
And dream of the birds and the hills of sheep.
Robert Louis Stevenson

STILLNESS

When the words rustle no more,
And the last work’s done,
When the bolt lies deep in the door,
And Fire, our Sun,
Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;

When from the clock’s last chime to the next chime
Silence beats his drum,
And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time
Wheeling and whispering come,
She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme:

Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,
I am emptied of all my dreams:
I only hear Earth turning, only see
Ether’s long bankless streams,
And only know I should drown if you laid not your hand on me.
James Elroy Flecker

LINES ON RECEIVING HIS MOTHER’S PICTURE

O that those lips had language! Life has passed
With me but roughly since I heard thee last.
Those lips are thine—thy own sweet smiles I see,
The same that oft in childhood solaced me;
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say,
“Grieve not, my child—chase all thy fears away!”...
My Mother! when I learnt that thou wast dead,
Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed?
Hovered thy spirit o’er thy sorrowing son,
Wretch even then, life’s journey just begun?
Perhaps thou gav’st me, though unseen, a kiss,
Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss—
Ah, that maternal smile! it answers—Yes.
I heard the bell tolled on thy burial day,
I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away,
And, turning from my nursery window, drew
A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu!
But was it such?—It was. Where thou art gone
Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown.
May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore,
The parting word shall pass my lips no more!
Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern,
Oft gave me promise of thy quick return.
What ardently I wished, I long believed,
And, disappointed still, was still deceived,
By expectation every day beguiled,

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child.
Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went,
Till, all my stock of infant sorrow spent,
I learnt at last submission to my lot.
But, though I less deplored thee, ne’er forgot.
Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more,
Children not thine have trod my nursery floor;
And where the gardener Robin, day by day,
Drew me to school along the public way,
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped
In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet-capped,
’Tis now become a history little known,
That once we called the pastoral house our own.
Short-lived possession! but the record fair
That memory keeps, of all thy kindness there,
Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced
A thousand other themes less deeply traced.
Thy nightly visits to my chamber made,
That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid;
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home,
The biscuit, or confectionery plum;
The fragrant waters on my cheek bestowed
By thy own hand, till fresh they shone and glowed;
All this, and more endearing still than all,
Thy constant flow of love, that knew no fall....
William Cowper

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry “’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!”
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved: so I said
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the Sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Tho’ the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.
William Blake

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL

Hie upon Hielands,
and laigh upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell
rode out on a day.

Saddled and briddled
and booted rade he;
Toom 46 hame cam’ the saddle,
but never cam’ he.

Down cam’ his auld mither,
greetin’47 fu’ sair,
And down cam’ his bonny wife,
wringin’ her hair:—

“My meadow lies green,
and my corn is unshorn,
My barn is to build
and my babe is unborn.”

Saddled and briddled
and booted rade he;
Toom hame cam’ the saddle
but never cam’ he.

THE ORPHAN’S SONG

I had a little bird,
I took it from the nest;
I prest it, and blest it,
And nurst it in my breast.

I set it on the ground,
I danced round and round,
And sang about it so cheerly,
With “Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!”

I make a little feast
Of food soft and sweet,
I hold it in my breast,
And coax it to eat;

I pit, and I pat,
I call it this and that,
And sing about it so cheerly,
With “Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!”

I may kiss, I may sing,
But I can’t make it feed,
It taketh no heed
Of any pleasant thing.

I scolded and I socked,
But it minded not a whit,
Its little mouth was locked,
And I could not open it.

Tho’ with pit, and with pat,
And with this, and with that,
I sang about it so cheerly,
With “Hey my little bird, and ho my little bird,
And ho but I love thee dearly!”

But when the day was done,
And the room was at rest,
And I sat all alone
With my birdie in my breast,

And the light had fled,
And not a sound was heard,
Then my little bird
Lifted up its head,

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

Swifter than I speak
I brought it food once more,
But the poor little beak
Was locked as before.

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

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

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

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

“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

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

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

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

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

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

“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

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.”

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

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.

I HAVE A YOUNG SISTER

I have a yong suster
fer beyondyn the se;
Many be the drowryis
that che sente me.

Che sente me the cherye,
withoutyn ony ston,
And so che dede (the) dowe,
withoutyn ony bon.

Sche sente me the brere,
withoutyn ony rynde,
Sche bad me love my lem-man
withoute longgyng.

How shuld ony cherye
be withoute ston?
And how shuld ony dowe
ben withoute bon?

How shuld any brere
ben withoute rynde?
How shuld I love my lemman
without longyng?

Quan the cherye was a flour,
than hadde it non ston;
Quan the dowe was an ey,
than hadde it non bon.

Quan the brere was onbred,
than hadde it non rynd;
Quan the mayden hayt that che lovit,
che is without longing.

I have a young sister
Far beyond the sea;
Many are the keepsakes
That she’s sent me.

She sent me a cherry—
It hadn’t any stone;
And so she did a wood dove
Withouten any bone.

She sent me a briar
Withouten any rind;
She bade me love my sweetheart
Without longing in my mind.

How should any cherry
Be without a stone?
And how should any wood dove
Be without a bone?

How should any briar,
Be without rind?
And how love a sweetheart
Without longing in my mind?

When the cherry was a flower
Then it had no stone;
When the wood-dove was an egg
Then it had no bone.

When the briar was unbred
Then it had no rind;
And when a maid hath that she loves,
She longs not in her mind.

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

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

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