English

With footstep slow, in furry pall yclad,
His brows enwreath'd with holly never-sear,
Old Christmas comes, to close the wained year;
And ay the Shepherd's heart to make right glad;
Who, when his teeming flocks are homeward had,
To blazing hearth repairs, and nut-brown beer,
And views, well-pleas'd, the ruddy prattlers dear
Hug the grey mungrel; meanwhile maid and lad
Squabble for roasted crabs. — Thee, Sire, we hail,
Whether thine aged limbs thou dost enshroud,
In vest of snowy white, and hoary veil,

This Morn ere yet had rung the matin peal,
The cursed Merlin, with his potent spell,
Aggriev'd me sore, and from his wizard cell,
(First fixing on mine eyes a magic seal)
Millions of ghosts and shadowy shapes let steal;
Who, swarming round my couch, with horrid yell,
Chatter'd and moe'd, as though from deepest Hell
They had escap'd.—I oft, with fervent zeal,
Essay'd, and prayer, to mar th'Enchanter's Pow'r.
In vain; for thicker still the crew came on,
And now had weigh'd me down, but that the Day

Busy in study be thou, child,
And in the hall, meek and mild,
And at the table, merry and glad,
And at bed, soft and sad.

A. Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow?
Busk ye, busk ye, my bony bony bride,
 And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Where gat ye that bony bony bride?
 Where gat ye that winsome marrow?
A. I gat her where I dare na weil be seen,
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

Weep not, weep not, my bony bony bride,
 Weep not, weep not, my winsome marrow,
Nor let thy heart lament to leive
 Puing the birks on the Braes of Yarrow.

B. Why does she weep, thy bony bony bride?

Bus driver,
Tram driver,
Driver of a train:
They take us out,
And bring us back again.
Tram conductor,
Bus conductor,
Train guard too:
They look after us,
Tell us what to do.
Bus men, train men,
Tram men, and motor men:
For all you do for us
W E THANK YOU !

Bury the Dragon's Teeth!
Bury them deep and dark!
The incisors swart and stark,
The molars heavy and dark —
And the one white Fang underneath!

Bury the Hope Forlorn!
Never shudder to fling,
With its fellows dusky and worn,
The strong and beautiful thing,
(Pallid ivory and pearl!)
Into the horrible Pit —
Hurry it in, and hurl
All the rest over it!

Trample them, clod by clod,
Stamp them in dust amain!
The cuspids, cruent and red,
That the Monster, Freedom, shed

" BURY me, " the bishop said,
" Close to my geranium bed;
Lay me near the gentle birch.
It is lonely in the church,
And its vaults are damp and chill!
Noble men sleep there, but still
House me in the friendly grass!
Let the linnets sing my mass! "

Dying Swithin had his whim
And the green sod covered him.

Then what holy celebrations
And what rapturous adorations,
Joy no worldly pen may paint —
Swithin had been made a saint!
Yet the monks forgot that he
Craved for blossom, bird and bee,

1

Look down, look down that lonesome road,
Hang down your head an' sigh;
The best of friends must part some day,
An' why not you an' I,
An' why not you an' I?

2

I wish to God that I had died,
Had died 'fore I was born,
Before I seen your smilin' face
An' heard your lyin' tongue,
An' heard your lyin' tongue.

By far the greater half have I seen through
This floating life — ah, there's the magic word —
This " half " — so rich in implications.
It bids us taste the joy of more than we
Can ever own. Halfway in life is man's
Best state, when slackened pace allows him ease.

A wide world lies halfway 'twixt heaven and earth;
To live halfway between the town and land,
Have farms halfway between the streams and hills;
Be half-a-scholar, and half-a-squire, and half
In business; half as gentry live,

The burned and dusty garden said:
“My leaves are echoes, and thy earth
Is packed with footsteps of the dead.

“The strength of spring-time brought to birth
Some needles on the crooked fir,—
A rose, a laurel—little worth.

“Come here, ye dreaming souls that err
Among the immortals of the grave:
My summer is your sepulchre.

“On earth what darker voices rave
Than now this sea-breeze, driving dust
And whirling radiance wave on wave,

“With lulls so fearful thro' the gust