'To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the faem;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou maun bring her hame.'

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

'O wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o' me,

To send us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?'

'Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her hame.'

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,
Wi' a' the speed they may ;

And they hae landed in Noroway

Upon a Wedensday.

They hadna been a week, a week

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway

Began aloud to say:

'Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd

And a' our queenis fee.'

'Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lie!

'For I hae brought as much white monie

As gane my men and me

And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Out o'er the sea wi' me.

'Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'! Our gude ship sails the morn.' 'Now ever alake, my master dear,

I fear a deadly storm!

'I saw the new moon, late yestreen, Wi' the auld moon in her arm;

And if we gang to sea, master,

I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sail'd a league, a league,
A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship
Till a' her sides were torn.

O where will I get a gude sailor,
To take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast;
To see if I can spy land?'

"O here am I, a sailor gude,
To take the helm in hand,

Till ye get up to the tall top-mast ;

But I fear you'll ne'er

spy land.'

He hadna gane a step, a step,

A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

'Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in.'

They fetch'd a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them round that gude ship's side,

But still the sea came in.

O laith laith were our gude Scots lords

To wet their cork-heeled shoon !
But lang ere a' the play was play'd
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That floated on the faem,

And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white-
The maidens tore their hair;
A' for the sake of their true loves—
For them they'll see na mair.

O lang lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang lang may the maidens sit,
Wi' the goud kaims in their hair,
A' waiting for their ain dear loves-
For them they'll see na mair.

O forty miles off Aberdour,

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

La Belle Dame Sans Mercy AH! what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering?

The sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight,
So haggard and so woe-begone?

The squirrel's granary is full,

And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,

With anguish moist and fever-dew;

And on thy cheek a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,

Full beautiful-a fairy's child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,

And nothing else saw all day long; For sideways would she lean and sing A fairy's song.

I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna-dew;
And sure in language strange she said,
I love thee true.

She took me to her elfin grot,

And there she gazed and sighed deep;
And there I shut her wild sad eyes-
So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed,

On the cold hill-side!

I saw pale kings and princes too,

Pale warriors-death-pale were they all; Who cried, 'La Belle Dame Sans Mercy Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloom,
With horrid warning gapèd wide;
And I awoke, and found me here
On the cold hill-side.

And this is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering:

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.

KEATS.

The Child and the Snake

HENRY was every morning fed

With a full mess of milk and bread.

One day the boy his breakfast took,

And ate it by a purling brook.

Which through his mother's orchard ran.
From that time ever when he can
Escape his mother's eye, he there
Takes his food in th' open air,

Finding the child delight to eat
Abroad, and make the grass his seat,
His mother lets him have his way.
With free leave Henry every day
Thither repairs, until she heard
Him talking of a fine grey bird.
This pretty bird, he said, indeed,
Came every day with him to feed,
And it loved him and loved his milk,
And it was smooth and soft like silk.
His mother thought she'd go and see
What sort of bird this same might be.
So the next morn she follows Harry,
And carefully she sees him carry
Through the long grass his heap'd-up mess.
What was her terror and distress,

When she saw the infant take

His bread and milk close to a snake!
Upon the grass he spreads his feast
And sits down by his frightful guest,
Who had waited for the treat;
And now they both began to eat.
Fond mother! shriek not, O beware

The least small noise, O have a care

The least small noise that may be made,
The wily snake will be afraid-

If he hear the lightest sound,

He will inflict th' envenom'd wound.

She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe, As she stands the trees beneath;

No sound she utters; and she soon

Sees the child lift up his spoon,

And tap the snake upon the head,

Fearless of harm; and then he said,

As speaking to familiar mate,

Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate :'

The snake then to the other side,

As one rebukèd, seems to glide;
And now again advancing nigh,
Again she hears the infant cry,
Tapping the snake, 'Keep further, do;
Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you.'
The danger's o'er-she sees the boy