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JOHN BARLEYCORN.

There were three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high;
Aud they have sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn shall die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down,
Put clods upon his head;

And they have 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 with pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

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

His bending joints and drooping head,
Showed 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 took a weapon long and sharp
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgelled him full sore;
Then hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up next a darksome pit
With water to the brim;

They heaved in poor 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 appeared,
They tossed 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 crushed him 'tween two stones.

And they have taken his very heart's blood, And drunk it round and round;

[But they that wrought this wicked deed No peace thereafter found.]

Burns.

THE CUCKOO.

Hail, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
Now Heaven repairs thy rural seat,
And woods thy welcome sing.

What time the daisy decks the green,
Thy certain voice we hear;
Hast thou a star to guide thy path,
Or mark the rolling year?

Delightful visitant! with thee

I hail the time of flowers,
And hear the sound of music sweet
From birds among the bowers.

The school-boy, wandering in the wood
To pull the primrose gay,

Starts thy most curious voice to hear,

And imitates thy lay.

Soon as the pea puts on the bloom,

Thou fliest the vocal vale,

An annual guest in other lands,
Another spring to hail.

Sweet bird! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear,
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song,

No winter in thy year.

O could I fly, I'd fly with thee;
We'd make, with joyful wing,
Our annual visit round the globe,
Companions of the spring.

John Logan.

THE LITTLE BROOK.

FROM THE GERMAN.

Gently flow through sun and shadow,
Happy little brook, along!

And by copse and flowery meadow
Lightly trip with dance and song!

Feed the flowers that hang above thee,
See them nod their silent thanks!
Gaily dances, bright and lovely,
Every wavelet 'twixt thy banks!
Here we fly from toil and sorrow,
Gladly see thy child-like glee;
Of thy lightsome heart we borrow,
And our hearts leap up with thee.
Listening to thy whispered greetings,
Here a while our eyelids close;
And the song birds' carol sweetens
Weary wanderers' soft repose.

J. S. Stallybrass. (by per.)

Listen to me,

SONG OF A RIVER.

My waters in the upland pastures rise,

Fed by the earth and skies;

Thence tend and set to the wide flowing sea;

And not a hill that lies

Along my course but seeth her green sides

Far down my glassy tides.

Oh, long-aye, long these scatter'd trees have stood,

And long this stretching wood.—

But I was old

Ere they did first their budding germs unfold,

Or the green acorns fell,

That into their great parent oaks did swell,

I was a river when the earth was young;

And from my source I sprung,

And danced with joyous cadence clear and strong,
My lonely paths along;

Sweet melodies I sung

Ere there was ear of man to hearken to my song.

Rev. Edward Harston.

THE ROBIN'S NEST.

She had a secret of her own,
That little girl of whom we speak,
O'er which she oft would muse alone,
Till the blush came across her cheek;
A rosy cloud that glowed awhile,
Then melted in a sunny smile.
What secret thus the soul possessed
Of one so young and innocent?
Oh! nothing but a robin's nest,
O'er which in ecstasy she bent;-
That treasure she herself had found,
With five brown eggs, upon the ground.
When first it flashed upon her sight,
Bolt flew the bird above her head;
She stooped, and almost shrieked with fright
But spying soon that little bed,

With feathers, moss, and horse-hairs twined,
Rapture and wonder filled her mind.

Breathless and beautiful she stood,
Her ringlets o'er her bosom fell,
With hands uplift, in attitude

As though a pulse might break the spell,
While through the shade her pale, fine face
Shone like a star amidst the place.

She stood so silent, stayed so long,
The parent birds forgot their fear,
Cock-robin trolled his small sweet song,
In notes like dew-drops, trembling, clear;
From spray to spray the shyer hen
Dropped softly on her nest again.
There Lucy marked her slender bill
On this side, and on that her tail

Peered o'er the edge-while, fixed and still,
Two bright black eyes her own assail,
Which in eye-language seemed to say,
"Peep, pretty maiden, then away!"

James Montgomery.

THE FIRST DAY OF MARCH.

It is the first mild day of March,
Each minute sweeter than before,
The redbreast sings from the tall larch
That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air

Which seems a sense of joy to yield To the bare trees, and mountains bare, And grass in the green field.

My sister! ('tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,
Make haste your moin'ng task resign,
Come forth and feel the sun.

One moment now may give us more
Than fifty years of reason;
Our minds shall drink at every pore
The spirit of the season.

Then come, my sister! come, I pray,
With speed put on your woodland dress;
And bring no book; for this one day
We'll give to idleness.

Wordsworth,

THE DAISY.

A gold and silver cup
Upon a pillar green,

Earth holds her Daisy up

To catch the sunshine in:

A dial chaste, set there

To show each radiant hour:

A field-astronomer;

A sun-observing flower.

The children with delight
To meet the Daisy run;
They love to see how bright
She shines upon the sun:
Like lowly white-crowned queen,
Demurely doth she bend,
And stands, with quiet mien,
The little children's friend.

She lifteth up her cup,

She gazeth on the sky;
Content, so looking up,
Whether to live or die;

Content, in wind and cold

To stand, in shine and shower;

A white-rayed marigold,
A golden-bosomed flower.

Henry Sutton.

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