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"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed.'
And all the hills echoed.
HOLY THURSDAY 'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red and blue and green, Grey headed beadles walk'd before, with wands as white as
snow, Till unto the high dome of Paul's they like Thames' waters
O what a multitude they seem'd, these flowers of London
town! Seated in companies, they sit with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of
song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among. Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor; Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
For Mercy has a human heart,
every man, of every clime,
And all must love the human form,
SONG Fresh from the dewy hill, the merry year Smiles on my head and mounts his flaming car; Round my young brows the laurel wreathes a shade, And rising glories beam around my head.
My feet are wing'd, while o'er the dewy lawn,
So when she speaks, the voice of heaven I hear;
But that sweet village where my black-ey'd maid
[d. 1808 (?)]
May my fate no less fortunate be
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;
While I carol away idle sorrow,
Look forward with hope for to-morrow.
As the sun-shine or rain may prevail; And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too,
With a barn for the use of the flail: A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,
And a purse when a friend wants to borrow; I'll envy no nabob his riches or fame,
Nor what honours may wait him to-morrow. From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighbouring hill;
By the sound of a murmuring rill:
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
And let them spread the table to-morrow.
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,
ту thread wish to spin o'er again: But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,
And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow; And this old worn-out stuff which is threadbare today,
May become everlasting to-morrow.
JESSIE, THE FLOWER O' DUNBLANE The sun has gane down o'er the lofty Benlomond,
And left the red clouds to preside o'er the scene, While lanely I stray in the calm simmer gloamin'
To muse on sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane. How sweet is the brier, wi' its saft faulding blossom,
And sweet is the birk, wi' its mantle o' green; Yet sweeter and fairer, and dear to this bosom,
Is lovely young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
She's modest as ony, and blythe as she's bonny;
For guileless simplicity marks her its ain; And far be the villain, divested o' feeling,
Wha'd blight, in its bloom, the sweet flower o' Dunblane. Sing on, thou sweet mavis, thy hymn to the e'ening,
Thou'rt dear to the echoes of Calderwood glen; Sae dear to this bosom, sae artless and winning,
Is charming young Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane
How lost were my days till I met wi' my Jessie,
The sports o' the city seemed foolish and vain; I ne'er saw a nymph I would ca’ my dear lassie,
Till charm’d wi' sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane
Amidst its profusion I'd languish in pain;
If wanting sweet Jessie, the flower o' Dunblane.
GLOOMY WINTER's Now Awa'
Saft the westlan' breezes blaw,
The mavis sings fu' cheerie, O!
Sweet the crawflower's early bell
My young, my artless dearie, O!
Come, my lassie, let us stray
'Midst joys that never weary, O!
Adorn the banks sae briery, O!
Round the sylvan fairy nooks
And ilka® thing is cheerie, O!
Unless wi' thee, my dearie, O!
[1770-1850] 364 ODE ON INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLEC
TIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD
THERE was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,
To me did seem
Apparell'd in celestial light,
Turn wheresoe'er I may,
By night or day, The things which I have seen I now can see no more! 1 Larks. a Silver willows. 3 Brakes. • Dodges.