He felt the cheering power of spring, But the Rover's mirth was wickedness. His eye was on the Inchcape float; The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row, 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, So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky On the deck the Rover takes his stand, Quoth Sir Ralph, 'It will be lighter soon, '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 ; Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair, But even in his dying fear One dreadful sound could the Rover hear, R. Southey XVIII WRITTEN IN MARCH The cock is crowing, The stream is flowing, The small birds twitter, 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; 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, 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, |