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• Can'st hear, said one, “the breakers roar ?
For methinks we should be near the shore ;
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 shivering 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 ship is sinking beneath the tide.

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

R. Southey

XVIII

WRITTEN IN MARCH

The cock 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 do fare

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 ? 0, 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 boild 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 swelld 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 For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.'

Old Ballad

bed soon,

XX

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There was three kings into the East,

Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath,

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall ; John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,
His head well armed wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale ;
His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age ;
And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgelld him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,

And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit

With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe,
And still, as signs of life appeard,

They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;
But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta’en his very heart's blood,

And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise ;
For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand ; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland !

Old Ballad

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