The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 4

_WINTER_

When icicles hang by the wall, And d.i.c.k the Shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, And milk comes frozen home in pail; When blood is nipt, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all around the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow And Marian's nose looks red and raw When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl Tuwhoo!

Tuwhit! tuwhoo! A merry note While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

_W. Shakespeare_

XVII

_THE INCHCAPE ROCK_

No stir in the air, no stir in the sea, The s.h.i.+p was as still as she could be, Her sails from heaven received no motion, Her keel was steady in the ocean.

Without either sign or sound of their shock The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock; So little they rose, so little they fell, They did not move the Inchcape Bell.

The good old Abbot of Aberbrothok Had placed that bell on the Inchcape Rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the Rock was hid by the surges' swell, The Mariners heard the warning bell; And then they knew the perilous Rock, And blest the Abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was s.h.i.+ning gay, All things were joyful on that day; The sea-birds scream'd as they wheel'd round, And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen A darker speck on the ocean green; Sir Ralph the Rover walk'd his deck, And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring, It made him whistle, it made him sing; His heart was mirthful to excess, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float; Quoth he, 'My men, put out the boat, And row me to the Inchcape Rock, And I'll plague the priest of Aberbrothok.'

The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, And to the Inchcape Rock they go; Sir Ralph bent over from the boat, And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell, with a gurgling sound, The bubbles rose and burst around; Quoth Sir Ralph, 'The next who comes to the Rock Won't bless the Abbot of Aberbrothok.'

Sir Ralph the Rover sail'd away, He scour'd the seas for many a day; And now grown rich with plunder'd store, He steers his course for Scotland's sh.o.r.e.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky They cannot see the sun on high; The wind hath blown a gale all day, At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand, So dark it is they see no land.

Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon, For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

'Can'st hear,' said one, 'the breakers roar?

For methinks we should be near the sh.o.r.e; Now where we are I cannot tell, But I wish I could hear the Inchcape Bell.'

They hear no sound, the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along, Till the vessel strikes with a s.h.i.+vering shock: Cried they, 'It is the Inchcape Rock!'

Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, He curst himself in his despair; The waves rush in on every side, The s.h.i.+p is sinking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, A sound as if with the Inchcape Bell, The fiends below were ringing his knell.

_R. Southey_

XVIII

_WRITTEN IN MARCH_

The c.o.c.k is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, The lake doth glitter, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest; The cattle are grazing, Their heads never raising; There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated The snow hath retreated, And now doth fare ill On the top of the bare hill; The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.

There's joy in the mountains; There's life in the fountains; Small clouds are sailing, Blue sky prevailing; The rain is over and gone!

_W. Wordsworth_

XIX

_LORD RANDAL_

'O, where have ye been, Lord Randal, my son?

O, where have ye been, my handsome young man?'

'I have been to the wood; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'Where got ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son?

Where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man?'

'I dined with my love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'What got ye to dinner, Lord Randal, my son?

What got ye to dinner, my handsome young man?'

'I got eels boil'd in broth; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?

And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?'

'O, they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'O, I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son!

O, I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!'

'O, yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.'