Oh, lang, lang may the ladyes sit, And lang, lang may the maidens sit, Oh, forty miles off Aberdour, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Unknown. SONG 1 FOR the tender beech and the sapling oak, You may cut down both at a single stroke, But this you must know, that as long as they grow, Whatever change may be, You can never teach either oak or beech To be aught but a greenwood tree. Thomas Love Peacock. 1 Note 9. THE MARINERS OF ENGLAND YE Mariners of England That guard our native seas! Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, Your glorious standard launch again And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave, For the deck it was their field of fame, Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell While the stormy winds do blow; Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow ; The meteor-flag of England Till danger's troubled night depart Our song and feast shall flow When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow. Thomas Campbell OLD IRONSIDES1 Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more. Her deck, once red with heroes' blood, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, 1 Note 10. No more shall feel the victor's tread,' Oh, better that her shattered hulk And give her to the god of storms, Oliver Wendell Holmes. NORA'S VOW I HEAR What Highland Nora said, — I would not wed the Earlie's son." II "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made, and lightly broke; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away III "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, But I, were all these marvels done, IV Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild-swan made; Sir Walter Scott. THE SKELETON IN ARMOR "SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest! Who, with thy hollow breast Still in rude armor drest, Comest to daunt me! |