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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 I
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.

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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 squirrels 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

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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 sighèd 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 gaped 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 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 rebuked, 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

his

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(O what a change from fear to joy !)
Rise and bid the snake ‘Good-bye ;'
Says he, 'Our breakfast's done, and I
Will come again to-morrow day;'
- Then, lightly tripping, ran away.

M. LAMB.

Tom Bowling
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,

The darling of our crew,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling;

For death has broach'd him to.
His form was of the manliest beauty,

His heart was kind and soft,
Faithful below he did his duty;

But now he's gone aloft.
Tom never from his word departed,

His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many and true-hearted,

His Poll was kind and fair :
And then he'd sing so blithe and jolly,

Ah, many's the time and oft !
But mirth is turn’d to melancholy,

For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,

When He who all commands,
Shall give, to call life's crew together,

The word to pipe all hands.
Thus Death, who kings and tars despatches,

In vain Tom's life has doff'd ;
For though his body's under hatches,
His soul has gone aloft.

C. DIBDIN.

The Kitten and Falling Leaves

That way look, my Infant, lo !
What a pretty baby-show!
See the Kitten on the wall,
Sporting with the leaves that fail,

Withered leaves-one--two--and three-
From the lofty elder-tree !
Through the calm and frosty air
Of this morning bright and fair,
Eddying round and round they sink
Softly, slowly : one might think,
From the motions that are made,
Every little leaf conveyed
Sylph or Faery hither tending,
To this lower world descending,
Each invisible and mute,
In his wavering parachute.

-But the Kitten, how she starts,
Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts !
First at one, and then its fellow
Just as light and just as yellow;
There are many now-now one-
Now they stop, and there are none :
What intenseness of desire
In her upward eye of fire !
With a tiger-leap half way
Now she meets the coming prey,
Lets it go as fast, and then
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
Like an Indian conjuror ;
Quick as he in feats of art,
Far beyond in joy of heart.
Were her antics played in th’eyc
Of a thousand standers-by,
Clapping hands with shout and stare,
What would little Tabby care
For the plaudits of the crowd ?
Uver happy to be proud,
Over wealthy in the treasure
Of her own exceeding pleasure.

'Tis a pretty baby-treat ;
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ;
Here, for neither Babe nor me,
Other play-mate can I see.
Of the countless living things,
That with stir of feet and wings

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