BOY'S SONG

JAMES HOGG

'HERE the pools are bright and deep,

W

Where the gray trout lies asleep,

Up the river, and o'er the lea,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the blackbird sings the latest,

Where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest, Where the nestings chirp and flee,

That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the mowers mow the cleanest,
Where the hay lies thick and greenest;
There to trace the homeward bee,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Where the hazel bank is steepest,
Where the shadow falls the deepest,
Where the clustering nuts fall free,
That's the way for Billy and me.

Why the boys should drive away
Little sweet maidens from the play,
Or love to banter and fight so well,
That's the thing I never could tell.
But this I know: I love to play,
Through the meadow, among the hay;
Up the water and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me.

CHARLIE IS MY DARLING

JAMES HOGG

WAS on a Monday morning,

TWA

Right early in the year,

That Charlie came to our town,

The young Chevalier.

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

As Charlie he came up the gate,
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.
And Charlie he's my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

And ilka bonnie lassie sang,

As to the door she ran,

"Our king shall hae his ain again,

And Charlie is the man:

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

Out-owre yon moory mountain,
And down the craigy glen,
Of naething else our lassies sing
But Charlie and his men.

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

Our Highland hearts are true and leal, And glow without a stain;

Our Highland swords are metal keen, And Charlie he's our ain.

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

THE THRUSH'S NEST

JOHN CLARE

ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,
That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy; and oft an unintruding guest,

I watch'd her secret toils from day to day,
How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,
And modell'd it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;
And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY TREE

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK

ID you hear of the curate who mounted his mare,
And merrily trotted along to the fair?

Of creature more tractable none ever heard;

In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; But again with a word, when the curate said, "Hey," She put forth her mettle and gallop'd away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode,
While the sun of September all brilliantly glow'd,
The good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire,
A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild brier;
On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot,
Hung, large, black and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot;

He shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the

fruit;

With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed,

And he stood up erect on the back of his steed;

On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, And he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill.