"Woe worth, woe worth ye, Jock, I paid ye well your fee; Why pull ye out the grund-wa' stone, "And e'en woe worth ye, Jock, my man! I paid ye well your hire; Why pull ye out the grund-wa' stone, "Ye paid me well my hire, ladye, Ye paid me well my fee; But now I'm Adam o' Gordon's man, Must either do or dee." Oh, then bespake her little son, Sat on the nurse's knee; Says, "O mither dear, give o'er this house! For the reek it smothers me." "I winna give up my house, my dear, Come weal, come woe, my jewel fair, Oh, then bespake her daughter dear, They rowed her in a pair of sheets, ADAM O' GORDON But on the point of Gordon's spear Oh, bonnie, bonnie was her mouth, Then with his spear he turned her o'er; He said, "Ye are the first that e'er "Busk and boun, my merry men all, For ill dooms I do guess; I cannot look on that bonnie face But when the ladye saw the fire She wept, and kissed her children twain, Oh, this way looked her own dear lord, He saw his castle all in a lowe, "Put on, put on, my mighty men, For he that's hindmost of the thrang 85 Then some they rade, and some they ran, Out o'er the grass and bent; But ere the foremost could win up, Both lady and babes were brent. And after the Gordon he is gane, And soon i' the Gordon's foul heart's blood Unknown. ARIEL'S SONGS WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip's bell I lie ; There I couch when owls do cry: On the bat's back I do fly After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, Under the blossom that hangs on the bough! COME unto these yellow sands, And then take hands: (The wild waves whist) Foot it featly here and there; And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear. Hark, hark! Bow-wow. The watchdogs bark: BREAK, BREAK, BREAK Bow-wow. Hark, hark! I hear The strain of strutting chanticleer Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow! Shakespeare. BREAK, BREAK, BREAK BREAK, break, break, On thy cold, gray stones, O Sea! Oh, well for the fisherman's boy, That he shouts with his sister at play! Oh, well for the sailor lad, That he sings in his boat on the bay! And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But oh, for the touch of a vanished hand, Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Alfred Tennyson. 87 SHAMEFUL DEATH THERE were four of us about that bed; He did not die in the night, When neither sun nor moon was bright, He was not slain with the sword, Knight's axe, or the knightly spear, Yet spoke he never a word After he came in here; I cut away the cord From the neck of my brother dear. He did not strike one blow, For the recreants came behind, In a place where the hornbeams grow, That the twilight makes it blind. |