"Away, away, ye ill woman!

Go from my door for shame! For I have gotten another Love, So you may hie you hame."

Fair Annie turned her round about; "Well! since that it be sae,

May never a woman, that has borne a son, Have a heart so full of wae!

"Take down, take down, the mast of gold, the mast o' tree;

Set

up

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."

"O wae betide ye, ill woman! An ill death may ye dee,

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.

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 overflowed.

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,