The shepherd-swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe.

THE DESTRUCTION OF SENNACHERIB1

THE Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold, And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold, And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the

sea,

When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, That host with their banners at sunset were seen; Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath

blown,

That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,

And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and

chill,

And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still.

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide, But through it there rolled not the breath of his

pride;

1 Note 8.

And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider, distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail ;
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal,
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
Lord Byron.

SIR PATRICK SPENS

THE king sits in Dunfermline toun,
Drinking the blude-red wine:
“Oh, whare will I get a skeely skipper
To sail this new ship of mine?

Oh, up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the king's right knee,
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

Our king has written a braid letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,

To Noroway o'er the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,
"T is thou maun bring her hame."

The first word that Sir Patrick read,
Sae loud, loud laughed he;

The neist word that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his e'e.

"Oh wha is this has done this deed,
And tauld the king o' me,

To send us out, at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?"

"Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet, Our ship must sail the faem;

The king's daughter of Noroway,

'Tis we must fetch her hame."

They hoysed their sails on Monenday morn,

Wi' a' the speed they may;

And they hae landed in Noroway

Upon a Wedensday.

They hadna been a week, a week

In Noroway but twae,

When that the lords o' Noroway

Began aloud to say:

"Ye Scottishmen spend a' our king's gowd,

And a' our queenis fee." "Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!

Fu' loud I hear ye lie!

"For I hae brought as much white monie As gane my men and me,

And I hae brought a half-fou' o' gude red gowd Out o'er the sea wi' me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men a'!
Our gude ship sails the morn."
"Now ever alake, my master dear,
I fear a deadly storm!

"I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
And if we gang to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brak, and the top-masts lap,

It was sic a deadly storm;

And the waves cam' o'er the broken ship

Till a' her sides were torn.

"Oh, where will I get a gude sailor, To take my helm in hand,

Till I get up to the tall top-mast,

To see if I can spy

land?"

"Oh here am I, a sailor gude,

To take the helm in hand,

Till ye get up to the tall top-mast:

But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He hadna gane a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,

When a bout flew out of our goodly ship,

And the salt sea it came in.

"Gae, fetch a web o' the silken claith, Another o' the twine,

And wap them into our ship's side,

And letna the sea come in."

They fetched a web o' the silken claith,

Another o' the twine,

And they wapped them round that gude ship's side, But still the sea came in.

Oh, laith, laith were our gude Scots lords

To wet their cork-heeled shoon!

But lang ere a' the play was played
They wat their hats aboon.

And mony was the feather-bed
That floated on the faem,
And mony was the gude lord's son
That never mair came hame.

The ladyes wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their hair;

A' for the sake of their true loves,

For them they'll see na mair.