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Away, away, ye ill woman!

Go from my door for shame!
For I have gotten another Love,

bie
you

hame.”

So you may

Fair Annie turned her round about;

66 Well! since that it be sae, May never a woman, that has borne a son,

Have a heart so full of wae !

a

« Take down, take down, the mast of gold, Set up

the mast o' tree; It ill becomes a forsaken lady

To sail so gallantlie."

Lord Gregory started from his sleep,

And to his mother did say, “I dreamt a dream, this night, mother,

That makes my heart right wae.

“I dreamt that Annie of Lochroyan,

The flower of all her kin,
E'en now was standing at my door,

But none would let her in.”

« Oh, there was a woman stood at the door,

With a bairn intill her arm;
But I could not let her come within,
For fear she had done

you

harm.”

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ill woman! An ill death may ye dee,

betide

ye,

That wadna open the door to her,

Nor yet would waken me!”

Oh, he's gone down to yon shore side

As fast as he could fare;
He saw fair Annie in the boat,

But the wind it tossed her sair.

And “Hey, Annie ! ” and “How, Annie !

O Annie, winna ye bide ?” But aye

the mair he cried “ Annie,” The broader grew the tide.

And “Hey, Annie!” and “How, Annie !

O Annie, speak to me!” But aye

the louder he cried “ Annie,” The louder roared the sea.

The wind blew loud, the sea grew rough,

And the ship was rent in twain : And soon he saw his fair Annie

Come floating o'er the main.

He saw his young son in her arms,

Both tossed above the tide ; He wrang

his hands, and fast he ran And plunged in the sea sae wide.

He catched her by the yellow hair,

And drew her up on the sand ; But cold and stiff was every limb

Before he reached the land.

And then he kissed her on the cheek,

And kissed her on the chin ;
And sair he kissed her on the lips :

But there was no breath within.

“Oh, wae betide my cruel mother! An ill death

may

she dee! She turned fair Annie from

my

door, Wha died for love of me!”

Unknown.

TO LUCASTA, ON GOING TO THE WARS

Tell me not (sweet) I am unkind,
That from the

nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace

A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,

As you, too, shall adore ;
I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honor more.

Richard Lovelace.

SONG

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,

And tune his

merry

note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall we see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets -
Come hither, come hither, come hither!

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Shakespeare.

TO A SKYLARK

HAIL to thee, blithe spirit !

Bird thou never wert.
That from heaven, or near it,

Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Higher still and higher

From the earth thou springest :
Like a cloud of fire,

The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

a

In the golden lightning

Of the sunken sun,

O'er which clouds are brightening,

Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

The pale purple even

Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of heaven

In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight.

Keen as are the arrows

Of that silver sphere
Whose intense lamp narrows

In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there.

All the earth and air

With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,

From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is over-

flowed.

What thou art we know not;

What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not

Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.

Like a poet hidden

In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,

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