Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Old Ballad XXI M MARY-ANN'S CHILD ARY-ANN was alone with her baby in arms, In her house with the trees overhead, For her husband was out in the night and the storms, In his business a-toiling for bread; And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar, And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree), That a prettier never did babble and smile Up a-top of a proud mother's knee; And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all. But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she felt she could give all the world for to tell Of a truth what his ailing could be ; And she thought on him last in her prayers at night, And she look'd at him last as she put out the light. And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight, And she rock'd him so sorrowfully; And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay, Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away. And the moon was a-shining down into the place And his mother could see that his lips and his face And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swell Never more can she feel his warm face in her breast (Under the leafy elm-tree), For his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest, For his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled, XXII W. Barnes THE USEFUL PLOUGH COUNTRY life is sweet! In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair, In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in gray, And follow the useful plough. They rise with the morning lark, And labour till almost dark; Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep ; While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing, On each green, tender bough. With what content and merriment, Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the useful plough! Old Song A XXIII A WREN'S NEST MONG the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little wren's No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof. So warm, so beautiful withal, And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness. These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, There to the brooding bird her mate Or in sequestered lanes they build, But still, where general choice is good, This, one of those small builders proved The leafy antlers sprout; For she who planned the mossy lodge, Had to a primrose looked for aid, High on the trunk's projecting brow, The budding flowers, peeped forth the nest, The treasure proudly did I show To some whose minds without disdain Can turn to little things; but once Looked up for it in vain : 'Tis gone a ruthless spoiler's prey, Who heeds not beauty, love, or song, 'Tis gone! (so seemed it,) and we grieved, Indignant at the wrong. Just three days after, passing by In clearer light, the moss-built cell The primrose for a veil had spread A simple flower deceives. Concealed from friends who might disturb Thy quiet with no ill intent, Secure from evil eyes and hands On barbarous plunder bent, Rest, mother-bird! and when thy young Think how ye prospered, thou and thine, Amid the unviolated grove, Housed near the growing primrose tuft In foresight, or in love. W. Wordsworth |