I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay, "Comfort weel your seven sons, I trow 'twas neither knave nor loon The clinking bell gaed through the town, "Are ye sleeping, Margaret ?" he says, "Your faith and troth ye sall never get, 66 My mouth it is full cold, Margaret, And if I kiss thy comely mouth Thy days will soon be at an end. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, Give me my faith and troth again, Thy faith and troth thou sall na get, Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?" D "Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers; I wot, sweet company for to see. "O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight, Then she has taken a chrisom wand, And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it to him at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan. "I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg❜ret; Ever I thank ye heartilie; But gin I were living, as I am dead, I'd keep my faith and troth with thee.” It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone, And there she lost the sight o' him. "Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet? Is there ony room at your side, Saunders? "There's nae room at my head, Marg❜ret, There's nae room at my feet; My bed it is fu' lowly now, Amang the hungry worms I sleep. "Cauld mould it is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet; The dew it falls nae sooner down Then up and crew the red red cock, ""Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg❜ret, "And fair Margret, and rare Marg❜ret, And Margret, o' veritie, Gin e'er ye love another man, Ne'er love him as ye did me." INVOCATION OF SILENCE. TILL-BORN Silence! thou that art Floodgate of the deeper bath. Offspring of a heavenly kind, Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind, Who makes religion mystery, Admiration's speaking'st tongue, Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb! RICHARD FLECKnoe. W CLARIBEL. A MELODY. HERE Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall: But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth. At eve the beetle boometh Her song the lintwhite swelleth, The fledgling throstle lispeth, The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth Where Claribel low-lieth. TENNYSON. [FRANCE SEEN FROM THE COAST OF ENGLAND.] SEPTEMBER, 1802. NLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood; And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France-the coast of France how near! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood. I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood Was like a lake, or river bright and fair, Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll, WORDSWORTH. THE SOWER'S SONG. OW hands to seed-sheet, boys, N° We step and we cast; old Time's on wing; And would ye partake of Harvest's joys, The corn must be sown in Spring. Fall gently and still, good corn, Lie warm in thy earthy bed; For beast and man must be fed. |