Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet sprites, the burden bear.

Hark, hark!

Bough wough,

The watch dogs bark,

Bough wough,

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer,

Cry, cock-a-doodle-doo.

W. Shakespeare

XL

HOW'S MY BOY?

Ho, sailor of the sea!
How's my boy-my boy?

'What's your boy's name, good wife,
And in what good ship sail'd he?'

My boy John

He that went to sea

What care I for the ship, sailor?

My boy's my boy to me.

You come back from sea

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.

How's my boy--my boy?
And unless you let me know

I'll swear you are no sailor,
Blue jacket or no,

Brass button or no, sailor,

Anchor and crown or no!

Sure his ship was the Folly Briton'Speak low, woman, speak low!'

And why should I speak low, sailor,
About my own boy John?

If I was loud as I am proud
I'd sing him over the town!
Why should I speak low, sailor?
'That good ship went down.'

How's my boy-my boy?
What care I for the ship, sailor,
I never was aboard her.

Be she afloat, or be she aground,

Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound,

Her owners can afford her!

I say, how's my John?

'Every man on board went down,

Every man aboard her.'

How's my boy-my boy?

What care I for the men, sailor?

I'm not their mother

How's my boy-my boy?

Tell me of him and no other!

How's my boy-my boy?

S. Dobell

XLI

THE SPANISH ARMADA

Attend all ye who list to hear our noble England's praise,

I tell of the thrice famous deeds she wrought in ancient days,

When that great fleet invincible against her bore in

vain

The richest spoils of Mexico, the stoutest hearts of

Spain.

It was about the lovely close of a warm summer

day,

There came a gallant merchant-ship full sail to Plymouth Bay;

Her crew hath seen Castile's black fleet beyond Aurigny's isle,

At earliest twilight, on the waves lie heaving many a mile;

At sunrise she escaped their van, by God's especial

grace;

And the tall Pinta, till the noon, had held her close in chase.

Forthwith a guard at every gun was placed along the wall;

The beacon blazed upon the roof of Edgcumbe's lofty hall;

Many a light fishing-bark put out to pry along the

coast;

And with loose rein and bloody spur rode inland many a post.

With his white hair unbonneted the stout old sheriff comes;

Behind him march the halberdiers, before him sound the drums;

His yeomen, round the market-cross, make clear an ample space,

For there behoves him to set up the standard of her Grace.

And haughtily the trumpets peal, and gaily dance the bells,

As slow upon the labouring wind the royal blazon

swells.

Look how the lion of the sea lifts up his ancient

crown,

And underneath his deadly paw treads the gay lilies down.

So stalked he when he turned to flight on that famed Picard field,

Bohemia's plume, and Genoa's bow, and Cæsar's eagle shield:

So glared he when at Agincourt in wrath he turned

to bay,

And crushed and torn beneath his paws the princely hunters lay.

Ho! strike the flag-staff deep, Sir Knight; ho! scatter flowers, fair maids :

Ho! gunners fire a loud salute: ho! gallants, draw your blades ;

Thou sun, shine on her joyously; ye breezes waft her wide;

Our glorious SEMPER EADEM, the banner of our pride.

The freshening breeze of eve unfurled that banner's massy fold,

The parting gleam of sunshine kissed that haughty scroll of gold;

Night sank upon the dusky beach, and on the purple sea,

Such night in England ne'er had been, nor ne'er again shall be.

From Eddystone to Berwick bounds, from Lynn to Milford Bay,

That time of slumber was as bright and busy as the day;

For swift to east and swift to west the ghastly warflame spread;

High on St. Michael's Mount it shone: it shone on Beachy Head.

Far on the deep the Spaniard saw, along each southern shire,

Cape beyond cape, in endless range, those twinkling points of fire;

The fisher left his skiff to rock on Tamar's glittering

waves,

The rugged miners poured to war from Mendip's sunless caves.

O'er Longleat's towers, o'er Cranbourne's oaks, the fiery herald flew ;

He roused the shepherds of Stonehenge, the rangers of Beaulieu.

Right sharp and quick the bells all night rang out from Bristol town,

And ere the day three hundred horse had met on Clifton down;

The sentinel on Whitehall gate looked forth into the night,

And saw, o'erhanging Richmond Hill, the streak of blood-red light.