Oh! haud ye leal and true, Jean,
Your day it's wearin' through, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare-ye-weel, my ain Jean,
The world's cares are vain, Jean,
We'll meet, and we'll be fain
In the land o' the leal.

WILLIAM BLAKE.

Born 1757. Died 1827.

SONG.

HOW sweet I roamed from field to field,

And tasted all the summer's pride;

Till I the Prince of Love beheld,

Who in the sunny beams did glide.

He showed me lilies for my hair,
And blushing roses for my brow;
And led me through his gardens fair,
Where all his golden pleasures grow.

With sweet May-dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;

He caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.

He loves to sit and hear me sing,

Then laughing sports and plays with me,

Then stretches out my golden wing,
And mocks my loss of liberty.

[From Songs of Innocence.]

INTRODUCTION.

PIPING down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me :—

'Pipe a song about a lamb :'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again :'
So I piped; he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe,
Sing thy songs of happy cheer:'
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book that all may read '-
So he vanished from my sight;
And I pluckt a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs,
Every child may joy to hear.

THE LAMB.

LITTLE lamb, who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee? Gave thee life and bade thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little lamb, I'll tell thee;
Little lamb, I'll tell thee.
He is called by thy name,
For He calls himself a Lamb.
He is meek and He is mild,
He became a little child.
I a child and thou a lamb,
We are called by His name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!

THE TIGER.

TIGER, tiger, burning bright

In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Framed thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt that fire within thine eyes?
On what wings dared he aspire?
What the hand dared seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand formed thy dread feet?

What the hammer, what the chain,

Knit thy strength and forged thy brain

What the anvil? What dread grasp

Dared thy deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?

Did He who made the lamb, make thee?

Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Framed thy fearful symmetry?