The cattle are grazing,
Their heads never raising;
There are forty feeding like one!

Like an army defeated
The snow hath retreated,
And now doth fare ill

On the top of the bare hill;
The Plough-boy is whooping anon, anon.
There's joy in the mountains;
There's life in the fountains;
Small clouds are sailing,
Blue sky prevailing ;

The rain is over and gone!

W. Wordsworth

XIX

LORD RANDAL

'O, where have ye been, Lord Randal, my son? O, where have ye been, my handsome young man ?' 'I have been to the wood; mother, make my bed

soon,

For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'Where got ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son ? Where got ye your dinner, my handsome young man?'

'I dined with my love; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'What got ye to dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What got ye to dinner, my handsome young man?' 'I got eels boil'd in broth; mother, make my bed

soon,

For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'And where are your bloodhounds, Lord Randal, my son?

And where are your bloodhounds, my handsome young man?'

'O, they swell'd and they died; mother, make my bed soon,

For I'm weary with hunting, and fain would lie down.'

'O, I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son! O, I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!'

'O, yes, I am poison'd! mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down.' Old Ballad

XX

JOHN BARLEYCORN

There was three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,

Put clods upon his head,

And they hae sworn a solemn oath,

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong,
His head well armed wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,
When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe,
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;

For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

Old Ballad

XXI

MARY-ANN'S CHILD

Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms,
In her house with the trees overhead,

For her husband was out in the night and the storms,
In his business a-toiling for bread;

And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar,
Did grieve to think he was all night out of door.

And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree),

That a prettier never did babble and smile

Up a-top of a proud mother's knee ;

And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all.

But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree),

And she felt she could give all the world for to tell Of a truth what his ailing could be;

And she thought on him last in her prayers at night, And she look'd at him last as she put out the light.

And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night

(Under the gloomy elm-tree),

And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight,

And she rock'd him so sorrowfully;

And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay,

Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died

away.