Here let us sport,
Boys, as we sit-
Laughter and wit
Flashing so free.
Life is but short-
When we are gone,
Let them sing on,
Round the old tree.

Evenings we knew,
Happy as this;
Faces we miss,

Pleasant to see.

Kind hearts and true,
Gentle and just,
Peace to your dust!
We sing round the tree.

Care like a dun,
Lurks at the gate;
Let the dog wait;
Happy we'll be !
Drink, every one;
Pile up the coals;
Fill the red bowls,
Round the old tree!

Drain we the cup.-
Friend, art afraid?
Spirits are laid

In the Red Sea.
Mantle it up;

Empty it yet;

Let us forget,

Round the old tree!

Sorrows begone!

Life and its ills,
Duns and their bills,

Bid we to flee.
Come with the dawn,
Blue-devil sprite;
Leave us to-night,
Round the old tree!

William Makepeace Thackeray.

* 42*

JOHN BARLEYCORN.

There were three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

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 cheerf 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,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head well armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Showed he began to fail.

His color 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;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon

his back,

And cudgelled him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They tossed him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones,

But a miller used him worst of all

For he crushed him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drunk it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise ;

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 'Twill heighten all his joy;

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Robert Burns.

*43*

MARCH.

The cock is crowing,
The stream is flowing,
The small birds twitter,
The lake doth glitter,

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;

There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated

The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;
The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,

Blue sky prevailing;

The rain is over and gone!

William Wordsworth

CHORAL SONG OF ILLYRIAN PEASANTS.

Up! up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!

To the meadows trip away.

'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,

And scare the small birds from the corn.
Not a soul at home may stay:

For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

Leave the hearth and leave the house
To the cricket and the mouse:
Find grannam out a sunny seat,
With babe and lambkin at her feet.
Not a soul at home may stay:
For the shepherds must go
With lance and bow

To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

S. T. Coleridge.

* 45*

THE USE OF FLOWERS.

God might have bade the earth bring forth
Enough for great and small,

The oak-tree and the cedar-tree,

Without a flower at all.

We might have had enough, enough

For every want of ours,

For luxury, medicine and toil,

And yet have had no flowers.

The ore within the mountain mine
Requireth none to grow;

Nor doth it need the lotus-flower
To make the river flow.

The clouds might give abundant rain,
The nightly dews might fall,
And the herb that keepeth life in man
Might yet have drunk them all.