'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, But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, XVIII WRITTEN IN MARCH The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The green field sleeps in the sun; The oldest and youngest Are at work with the strongest ; The cattle are grazing, Like an army defeated On the top of the bare hill; 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.' Old Ballad XX JOHN BARLEYCORN There was three kings into the East, 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, The sober autumn entered mild, His bending joints and drooping head 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, They filled up a darksome pit They heaved in John Barleycorn, They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 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, For if you do but taste his blood, Then let us toast John Barleycorn, And may his great posterity Old Ballad |