Puslapio vaizdai
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Soon week came to end, and, from Hole's

door set wide, Out he march’d, and there waited the

lassie : “Yon gallows, or Muckle-mouth Meg for

a bride! Consider! Sky's blue and turf 's grassy: “ Life's sweet; shall I say ye wed Muckle

mouth Meg ?” “Not I,” quoth the stout heart : “ too

eerie The mouth that can swallow a bubblyjock's Shall I let it munch mine? Never,

dearie !"

egg :

Oh to love so, be so lov'd, yet so mis

taken ! What had I on earth to do With the slothful, with the mawkish, the

unmanly ? Like the aimless, helpless, hopeless did I drivel

– Being — who? One who never turn'd his back but march'd

breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dream'd, though right were worsted,

wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight


Sleep to wake. No, at noonday in the bustle of man's

work-time Greet the unseen with a cheer ! Bid him forward, breast and back as either

should be, “ Strive and thrive!” cry “Speed, — fight

on, fare ever

There as here!”

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Dpdney Dobell


“My boy John -
He that went to sea —
What care I for the ship, sailor ?
My boy's my boy to me.


* 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 ?

“ You come back from sea,
And not know my John ?
I might as well have ask'd 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 buttons or no, sailor,
Anchor and crown or no !
Sure his ship was the “Jolly 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 was never 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 ? "

She sings no song of love's despair,
She sings no lover lowly laid,
No fond peculiar grief
Has ever touched or bud or leaf
Of her unblighted spring.
She sings because she needs must sing ;
She sings the sorrow of the air
Whereof her voice is made.
That night in Britain howsoe'er
On any chords the fingers stray'd
They gave the notes of care.
A dim sad legend old
Long since in some pale shade
Of some far twilight told,
She knows not when or where,
She sings, with trembling hand on trembling

lute-strings laid:
The murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine “Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line !"


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The burnie that goes babbling by

Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger ! here, from year


year, She keeps her shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line ! Step out three steps, where Andrew stood

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear ? The ancient stile is not alone,

'Tis not the burn I bear !

Your sister Winifred !
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed !
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head ;
Out of the big oak-tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine ; Oh, Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line !

TOMMY'S DEAD You may give over plough, boys, You may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. The seed's waste, I know, boys, There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'Tis cropp'd out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys —
The Lord be hallowed !
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The bills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivell’d and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.
There's nothing but cinders and sand,
The rat and the mouse have fed,
And the summer 's empty and cold ;
Over valley and wold
Wherever I turn my head
There's a mildew and a mould,
The sun's going out overhead,
And I'm very old,
And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she 's badly bred ;

Stop the mill to-morn, boys,
There'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red ;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land 's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my

head :
She's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Take her away from me, boys,

What am I staying for, boys ?
You 're all born and bred,
'Tis fifty years and more, boys,
Since wife and I were wed,
And she's gone before, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
She was always sweet, boys,
Upon his curly head,
She knew she'd never see't, boys,
And she stole off to bed ;
I've been sitting up alone, boys,
For he'd come home, he said,
But it's time I was gone, boys,
For Tommy's dead.

Put the shutters up, boys,
Bring out the beer and bread,
Make haste and sup, boys,
For my eyes are heavy as lead ;
There's something wrong i' the cup, boys,
There's something ill wi' the bread,
I don't care to sup, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
I'm not right, I doubt, boys,
I've such a sleepy head,
I shall never more be stout, boys,
You may carry me to bed.
What are you about, boys ?
The prayers are all said,
The fire's rak'd out, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night 's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy's dead.
I'm not us’d to kiss, boys,



hand instead. All things go amiss, boys, You may lay me where she is, boys, And I'll rest my old head : 'Tis a poor world, this, boys, And Tommy's dead.

AMERICA Nor force nor fraud shall sunder us ! 0 ye Who north or south, on east or western land, Native to noble sounds, say truth for truth, Freedom for freedom, love for love, and God For God ; ( ye who in eternal youth Speak with a living and creative flood This universal English, and do stand Its breathing book ; live worthy of that

grand Heroic utterance – parted, yet a whole, Far yet unsever'd, - children brave and free Of the great Mother-tongue, and ye shall be Lords of an empire wide as Shakespeare's

soul, Sublime as Milton's immemorial theme, And rich as Chaucer's speech, and fair as

Spenser's dream.

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“How many ?” said our good Captain. “ Twenty sail and more." We were homeward bound, Scudding in a gale with our jib towards

the Nore. Right athwart our tack,

The foe came thick and black, Like Hell-birds and foul weather - you

might count them by the score.

SAE turn’d the fair page with her fairer

hand More fair and frail than it was wont to be — O’er each remember'd thing he lov'd to see She linger'd, and as with a fairy's wand Enchanted it to order. Oft she fann'd New motes into the sun ; and as a bee Sings thro' a brake of bells, so murmur'd

she, And so her patient love did understand The reliquary room. Upon the sill She fed his favorite bird. • Ah, Robin,

sing! He loves thee.” Then she touches a sweet

string Of soft recall, and towards the Eastern hill Smiles all her soul - for him who cannot

hear The raven croaking at his carrion ear.

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The Betsy Jane did slack To see the game in view. They knew the Union-Jack, And the tyrant's flag we knew ! Our Captain shouted “Clear the decks ! ”

and the Bo'sun's whistle blew.

Then our gallant Captain,
With his hand he seiz'd the wheel,

And pointed with his stump to the mid- I saw, height after depth, Alp beyond Alp, dle of the foe.

O'er which the rising and the sinking soul “ Hurrah, lads, in we go !”

Sails into distance, heaving as a ship (You should hear the British cheer, O'er a great sea that sets to strands unseen. Fore and aft.)

And as the mounting and descending bark,

Borne on exulting by the under deep, “ There are twenty sail,” sang he, Gains of the wild wave something not the “ But little Betsy Jane bobs to nothing on

wave, the sea !”

Catches a joy of going, and a will (You should hear the British cheer, Resistless, and upon the last lee foam Fore and aft.)

Leaps into air beyond it, so the soul

Upon the Alpine ocean mountain-tossid, “See yon ugly craft

Incessant carried up to heaven, and plunged With the pennon at her main !

To darkness, and still wet with drops of Hurrah, my merry boys,

death There goes the Betsy Jane !"

Held into light eternal, and again (You should hear the British cheer, Cast down, to be again uplift in vast Fore and aft.)

And infinite succession, cannot stay

The mad momentum, but in frenzied sight The foe, he beats to quarters, and the Of horizontal clouds and mists and skies Russian bugles sound ;

And the untried Inane, springs on the surge And the little Betsy Jane she leaps upon Of things, and passing matter by a force the sea.

Material, thro’ vacuity careers, “ Port and starboard!” cried our Captain; Rising and falling: * Pay it in, my hearts !” sang he.

Doctor. And my Shakespeare! Call

Milton your Alps, and which is he among “We're old England's sons,

The tops of Andes ? Keep your Paradise, And we'll fight for her to-day !”

And Eves, and Adams, but give me the (You should hear the British cheer.

Earth Fore and aft.)

That Shakespeare drew, and make it grave “Fire away!”

With Shakespeare's men and women; let And her guns

me laugh Thunder round.


with them, and you a wager,


A wager by my faith – either his muse

Was the recording angel, or that hand MILTON

Cherubic, which fills up the Book of Life, FROM “BALDER"

Caught what the last relaxing gripe let

fall Doctor.

Ah! thou, too, By a death-bed at Stratford, and henceSad Alighieri, like a waning moon

forth Setting in storm behind a grove of bays ! Holds Shakespeare's pen. Now strain your Balder. Yes, the great Florentine, who sinews, poet, wove his web

And top your Pelion, — Milton Switzerland, And thrust it into hell, and drew it forth And English Shakespeare Immortal, having burn'd all that could burn, Balder.

This dear English land ! And leaving only what shall still be found This happy England, loud with brooks and Untouch'd, nor with the smell of fire upon it, birds, Under the final ashes of this world.

Shining with harvests, cool with dewy trees, Doctor. Shakespeare and Milton ! And bloom'd from hill to dell; but whose Balder. Switzerland and home.

best flowers I ne'er see Milton, but I see the Alps, Are daughters, and Ophelia still more fair As once, sole standing on a peak supreme, Than any rose she weaves; whose noblest To the extremest verge summit and gulf


and gay

In she runs,

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