I love to rise in a summer morn

When the birds sing on every tree; The distant huntsman winds his horn And the skylark sings with me.

O! what sweet company.

I

THE CHILSWELL BOOK

OF ENGLISH POETRY

Hunting Song

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear:
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily merrily mingle they;

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green ;
Now we come to chant our lay,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size ;

We can show the marks he made

When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;

You shall see him brought to bay;

'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

A

2*

3

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay !
Tell them, youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Staunch as hound and fleet as hawk ?

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay!

Song from Cymbeline

Scott.

HARK, hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus 'gins arise,

His steeds to water at those springs

On chaliced flowers that lies;

And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes;
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise;

Arise, arise!

Shakespeare.

Song on May Morning

Now the bright morning Star, Day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The Flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow Cowslip and the pale Primrose.
Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm desire;
Woods and Groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and Dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early Song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

Milton.

harbinger] herald.

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.

Blake.

5

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat

Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun

And loves to live i' the sun,

Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets

Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

6

Shakespeare.

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees
And the mountain tops that freeze
Bow themselves when he did sing:

To his music plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting Spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,

Hung their heads and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,

Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing die.

Shakespeare.