He is dead and gone, lady,

He is dead and gone ;
At his head a grass-green turf,

At his heels a stone.

White his shroud as the mountain snow,

Larded with sweet flowers,
Which bewept to the grave did go
With true-love showers

Shakespeare.

16

Jos on, jog on, the footpath way,

And merrily hent the stile-a :
A merry heart goes all the day,

,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Shakespeare.

17
My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer ;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go.
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow ; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods ; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart 's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ;
My heart 's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer;
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart 's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Burns.

18

The Vagabond

GIVE to me the life I love,

Let the lave go by me,
Give the jolly heaven above

And the by-way nigh me.
Bed in the bush with stars to see,

Bread I dip in the river-
There's the life for a man like me,

There 's the life for ever.

Let the blow fall soon or late,

Let what will be o'er me ;
Give the face of earth around

And the road before me.
Wealth I seek not, hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me;
All I seek, the heaven above

And the road below me.

Or let autumn fall on me

Where afield I linger,
Silencing the bird on tree,

Biting the blue finger.
White as meal the frosty field-

Warm the fireside haven-
Not to autumn will I yield,

Let the blow fall soon or late,

Let what will be o'er me ;
Give the face of earth around,

And the road before me.
Wealth I ask not, hope nor love,

Nor a friend to know me.
All I ask, the heaven above,
And the road below me.

Stevenson.

19

On the Hearth-Rug

' LITTLE tongue of red-brown flame,
Whither go you ? '-'Whence I came ;
Sending on a courier spark
To explore the chimney dark.

Steely lightning struck the bough,
And I sank into a slough.
Many ages there I lay,
Ere I saw the All-Father, Day.

* Now I sparkle once again,
Flashing light and warmth to men,
Ere, like all things that are bright,
I rejoin the All-Mother, Night.'

Mary Coleridge.

20

IF thou wast still, O stream,

Thou would'st be frozen now :
And 'neath an icy shield

Thy current warm would flow.

But wild thou art and rough ;

And so the bitter breeze,
That chafes thy shuddering waves,
May never bid thee freeze.

Dixon.

21

The Minstrel-Boy
THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,

In the ranks of death you 'll find him;
His father's sword he has girded on,

And his wild harp slung behind him.-
Land of song!' said the warrior-bard,

* Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,

One faithful harp shall praise thee!'

The Minstrel fell !—but the foeman's chain

Could not bring his proud soul under ;
The harp he loved ne'er spoke again,

For he tore its chords asunder ;
And said, “ No chains shall sully thee,

Thou soul of love and bravery !
Thy songs were made for the brave and free:
They shall never sound in slavery!'

Moore.

22 re 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 waves,

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.