by Paul Keegan
And they waded thro red blude to the knee;
For a’ the blude that’s shed on earth
Rins thro the springs o that countrie.
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Syne they came on to a garden green,
And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:
‘Take this for thy wages, True Thomas,
It will give thee the tongue that can never lie.’
‘My tongue is mine ain,’ True Thomas said;
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‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!
I neither dought to buy nor sell,
At fair or tryst where I may be.
‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,
Nor ask of grace from fair ladye:’
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‘Now hold thy peace,’ the lady said,
‘For as I say, so must it be.’
He has gotten a coat of the even cloth,
And a pair of shoes of velvet green,
And till seven years were gane and past
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True Thomas on earth was never seen.
ANONYMOUS Lord Randal
O where ha’ you been, Lord Randal my son?
And where ha’ you been, my handsome young man?
I ha’ been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down.
An’ wha met ye there, Lord Randal my son?
An’ wha met you there, my handsome young man?
O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ an’ fain wad lie down.
And what did she give you, Lord Randal my son?
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?
Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down.
And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal my son?
And wha gat your leavins, my handsom young man?
My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ hunting and fain wad lie down.
And what becam of them, Lord Randal my son?
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?
They stretched their legs out an’ died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m wearied wi’ huntin’ and fain wad lie down.
O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal my son,
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man.
O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?
Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?
My gold and my silver; mother, make my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart an’ I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?
My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.
What d’ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d’ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I’m sick at the heart and I fain wad lie down.
A Lyke-Wake Dirge
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
– Every nighte and alle,
Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
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When thou from hence away art past,
– Every nighte and alle,
To Whinny-muir thou com’st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If ever thou gavest hosen and shoon,
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– Every nighte and alle,
Sit thee down and put them on;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If hosen and shoon thou ne’er gav’st nane
– Every nighte and alle,
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The whinnes sail prick thee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
From Whinny-muir when thou may’st pass,
– Every nighte and alle,
To Brig o’ Dread thou com’st at last;
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And Christe receive thy saule.
From Brig o’ Dread when thou may’st pass,
– Every nighte and alle,
To Purgatory fire thou com’st at last;
And Christe receive thy saule.
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If ever thou gavest meat or drink,
– Every nighte and alle,
The fire sail never make thee shrink;
And Christe receive thy saule.
If meat or drink thou ne’er gav’st nane,
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– Every nighte and alle,
The fire will burn theee to the bare bane;
And Christe receive thy saule.
This ae nighte, this ae nighte,
– Every nighte and alle,
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Fire and fleet and candle-lighte,
And Christe receive thy saule.
1803 ANONYMOUS The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Where sail we gang and dine to-day?’
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‘In behint yon auld fail dyke,
I wot there lies a new slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there,
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
‘His hound is to the hunting gane,
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His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may mak our dinner sweet.
‘Ye’ll sit on his white hause-bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue een;
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Wi ae lock o his gowden hair
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sail ken where he is gane;
Oer his white banes, when they are bare,
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The wind sail blaw for evermair.’
WILLIAM COWPER The Snail
To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall
The snail sticks close, nor fears to fall,
As if he grew there, house and all,
Together.
Within that house secure he hides
When danger imminent betides
Of storm, or other harm besides
Of Weather.
Give but his horns the slightest touch,
His self-collecting pow’r is such,
He shrinks into his house with much
Displeasure.
Where’er he dwells, he dwells alone,
Except himself has chatells none,
Well satisfied to be his own
whole treasure.
Thus hermit-like his life he leads,
Nor partner of his banquet needs,
And if he meet one, only feeds
The faster.
Who seeks him, must be worse than blind,
(He and his house are so combined),
If, finding it, he fail to find
Its master.
WILLIAM COWPER The Cast-away
Obscurest night involved the sky,
Th’ Atlantic billows roar’d,
When such a destin’d wretch as I
Wash’d headlong from on board
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft,
His floating home for ever left.
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No braver Chief could Albion boast
Than He with whom he went,
Nor ever ship left Albion’s coast
With warmer wishes sent,
He loved them both, but both in vain,
Nor Him beheld, nor Her again.
Not long beneath the whelming brine
Expert to swim, he lay,
Nor soon he felt his strength decline
Or courage die away;
But waged with Death a lasting strife
Supported by despair of life.
He shouted, nor his friends had fail’d
To check the vessels’ course,
But so the furious blast prevail’d
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.
Some succour yet they could afford,
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord
Delay’d not to bestow;
But He, they knew, nor ship nor shore,
Whate’er they gave, should visit more.
Nor, cruel as it seem’d, could He
Their haste, himself, condemn,
Aware that flight in such a sea
Alone could rescue them;
Yet bitter felt it still to die
Deserted, and his friends so nigh.
He long survives who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld,
And so long he with unspent pow’r
His destiny repell’d,
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried, Adieu!
At length, his transient respite past,
His comrades, who before
Had heard his voice in ev’ry blast,
Could catch the sound no more;
For then, by toil subdued, he drank
The stifling wave, and then he sank.
No poet wept him, but the page
Of narrative sincere
That tells his name, his worth, his age,
Is wet with Anson’s tear,
And tears by bards or heroes shed
Alike immortalize the Dead.
I, therefore, purpose not or dream,
Descanting on his fate,
To give the melancholy theme
A more enduring date,
But Mis’ry still delights to trace
Its semblance in another’s case.
No voice divine the storm allay’d,
No light propitious shone,
When, snatch’d from all effectual aid,
We perish’d, each, alone;
But I, beneath a rougher sea,
And whelm’d in deeper gulphs than he.
1804 WILLIAM BLAKE from Milton [Preface]
And did those feet in ancient time.
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.
WILLIAM BLAKE
Mock on Mock on Voltaire Rousseau
Mock on Mock on tis all in vain
You throw the sand against the wind
And the wind blows it back again
And every sand becomes a Gem
Reflected in the beams divine
Blown back they blind the mocking Eye
But still in Israels paths they shine
The Atoms of Democritus
And Newtons Particles of light
Are sands upon the Red sea shore
Where Israels tents do shine so bright
WILLIAM BLAKE The Crystal Cabinet 1805
The Maiden caught me in the Wild
Where I was dancing merrily
She put me into her Cabinet
And Lockd me up with a golden Key
This Cabinet is formd of Gold
And Pearl & Crystal shining bright
And within it opens into a World
And a little lovely Moony Night
Another England there I saw
Another London with its Tower
Another Thames & other Hills
And another pleasant Surrey Bower
Another Maiden like herself
Translucent lovely shining clear
Threefold each in the other closd
O what a pleasant trembling fear
O what a smile a threefold Smile
Filld me that like a flame I burnd
I bent to Kiss the lovely Maid
And found a Threefold Kiss returnd
I strove to sieze the inmost Form
With ardor fierce & hands of flame
But burst the Crystal Cabinet
And like a Weeping Babe became
A weeping Babe upon the wild
And Weeping Woman pale reclind
And in the outward air again
I filld with woes the passing Wind
WILLIAM BLAKE from Auguries of Innocence
To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour
A Robin Red breast in a Cage
Puts all Heaven in a Rage
A dove house filld with doves & Pigeons
Shudders Hell thro all its regions
A dog starvd at his Masters Gate
Predicts the ruin of the State
A Horse misusd upon the Road
Calls to Heaven for Human blood
Each outcry of the hunted Hare
