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The ladyes wrang their fingers white-
O lang lang may the ladyes sit,
And lang lang may the maidens sit,
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,
The sedge is withered from the lake,
Ah! what can ail thee, wretched wight,
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
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful-a fairy's child;
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 found me roots of relish sweet,
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she gazed and sighed deep;
And there we slumbered on the moss,
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,
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering:
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.
The Child and the Snake
HENRY was every morning fed
With a full mess of milk and bread.
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
His bread and milk close to a snake!
The least small noise, O have a care
The least small noise that may be made,
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,
'Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:'
(O what a change from fear to joy !)
HERE, a sheer hulk, lies poor Tom Bowling,
No more he'll hear the tempest howling,
Tom never from his word departed,
His virtues were so rare,
His friends were many and true-hearted,
But mirth is turn'd to melancholy,
For Tom is gone aloft.
Yet shall poor Tom find pleasant weather,
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.
The Kitten and Falling Leaves
THAT way look, my Infant, lo!
What a pretty baby-show!
Sporting with the leaves that fall,
Withered leaves-one--two- and three-
Through the calm and frosty air
Sylph or Faery hither tending,-
In his wavering parachute.
-But the Kitten, how she starts,
In her upward eye of fire!
Has it in her power again :
Now she works with three or four,
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?
Over happy to be proud,
'Tis a pretty baby-treat;