Then Robin he hasted over the plain,

He did neither stint nor lin,

Until he came unto the church,

Where Allan should keep his wedding.

"What hast thou here?" the bishop then said, "I prithee now tell unto me : "

“I am a bold harper," quoth Robin Hood, "And the best in the north country."

"O welcome, O welcome," the bishop he said, "That music best pleaseth me;

"You shall have no music," quoth Robin Hood, "Till the bride and the bridegroom I see."

With that came in a wealthy knight,

Which was both grave and old,

And after him a finikin lass,

Did shine like the glistering gold.

"This is not a fit match," quoth bold Robin Hood, "That you do seem to make here,

For since we are come into the church

The bride shall choose her own dear."

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three;

When four and twenty bowmen bold

Came leaping over the lea.

And when they came into the churchyard,
Marching all on a row,

The very first man was Allan a Dale,

To give bold Robin his bow.

"This is thy true love," Robin he said,

"Young Allan as I hear say;

And you shall be married at this same time,
Before we depart away."

"That shall not be," the bishop he said, "For thy word shall not stand;

They shall be three times asked in the church, As the law is of our land."

Robin Hood pulled off the bishop's coat,

And put it upon Little John;

By the faith of my body," then Robin said, "This cloth doth make thee a man.”

When Little John went into the choir,
The people began to laugh;

He asked them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.

"Who gives me this maid?" said Little John; Quoth Robin Hood, "That do I,

And he that takes her from Allan a Dale,
Full dearly he shall her buy."

And thus having end of this merry wedding,
The bride looked like a queen;

And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
Amongst the leaves so green.

*

90 *

THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GEORGE.

Toll for the brave!

The brave that are no more!

All sunk beneath the wave,

Fast by their native shore!

Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried,

Had made the vessel heel,

And laid her on her side.

A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;

Down went the Royal George,

With all her crew complete.

Toll for the brave!

Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought, His work of glory done.

It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock;
She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.

His sword was in his sheath;
His fingers held the pen,
When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.

Weigh the vessel up,

Once dreaded by our foes!

And mingle with our cup

The tear that England owes.

Her timbers yet are sound,

And she may float again,

Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.

But Kempenfelt is gone,

His victories are o'er;

And he and his eight hundred
Shall plough the wave no more.

William Cowper.

* 91*

THE DESERTED HOUSE.

Life and Thought have gone away.
Side by side,

Leaving door and windows wide;
Careless tenants they!

All within is dark as night;
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,

So frequent on its hinge before.

Close the door, the shutters close,
Or through the windows we shall see,
The nakedness and vacancy

Of the dark, deserted house.

Come away; no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.

Come away; for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;

But in a city glorious—

A great and distant city-have bought
A mansion incorruptible,

Would they could have stayed with us!
Alfred Tennyson.

*92*

TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY

TURNED DOWN BY A PLOUGH.

Wee, modest, crimson tippéd flower,
Thou's met me in an evil hour;
For I maun crush amang the stoure

Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my power,

Thou bonnie gem!

Alas, it's not thy neebor sweet,
The bonnie lark, companion meet!
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet!

Wi' speckled breast,

When upward springing, blythe, to greet
The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter, biting north
Upon thy early humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth,

Amid the storm!

Scarce reared above the parent earth
Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa's maun shield But thou, beneath the random bield

There in thy scanty mantle clad,
Thy snawie bosom sunward spread,
Thou lifts thy unassuming head

In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,
And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of simple bard,
On life's rough ocean luckless starred!
Unskilful he to note the card

Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage, and gales blow hard,

And whelm him o'er.