He is dead and gone, lady, 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 JOG on, jog on, the footpath way, Your sad tires in a mile-a. Shakespeare. 17 My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 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. larded] stuck all over with. hent] seize, lay hand on. straths] low alluvial land, waterside meadows. 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, Bread I dip in the river— Let the blow fall soon or late, Or let autumn fall on me Biting the blue finger. Warm the fireside haven Not to autumn will I yield, Not to winter even! lave] remainder. 19 Let the blow fall soon or late, All I ask, the heaven above, Stevenson. On the Hearth-Rug 'LITTLE tongue of red-brown flame, To explore the chimney dark. Once I was a sunbeam fair, '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, Mary Coleridge. 20 Ir thou wast still, O stream, Thy current warm would flow. But wild thou art and rough; And so the bitter breeze, That chafes thy shuddering waves, 21 Dixon. The Minstrel-Boy THE Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him.- Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain Thy songs were made for the brave and free: Moore. 22 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! And sweep through the deep, The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave For the deck it was their field of fame, As ye sweep through the deep, Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; |