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To Pembroke College

Full often, with a cloud about me shed
Of phantoms numberless, I have alone
Wander'd in Ancient Oxford marvelling:
Calling the storied stone to yield its dead:
And I have seen the sunlight richly thrown
On spire and patient turret, conjuring
Old glass to marlèd beauty with its kiss,
And making blossom all the foison sown
Through lapsèd years. I've felt the deeper bliss
Of eve calm-brooding o'er her lovèd care,
And tingeing her one all-embosoming tone.
And I have dream'd on thee, thou college fair,
Dearest to me of all, until I seem'd

Random Generation of English Sentences; or, The Revenge of the Poets

What does she put four whistles beside heated rugs for?
The answer is perfectly clear:
Four drunken poets might reel through the woodwork
And leer.

Four drunken poets might lurch toward the heated rugs,
Bearing buckets of ice,
And say: “Madam, it's colder than your computer may think;
Our advice

Is to pick up your whistles and fold your tents like the Arabs
And silently steal—or fly—
Where all your hot-rugged brothers and sisters are headed.
Madam, good-bye!”

There Waur Aucht and Forty Nobles

There waur aucht an forty nobles rade to the king's ha,
But bonnie Glenlogie was the flour o them a'.

There waur aucht an forty nobles rade to the king's dine,
But bonnie Glenlogie was the flour o thrice nine.

Bonnie Jeanie Melville cam trippin doun the stair,
An whan she saw Glenlogie her hairt it grew sair.

. . . . . . . . . .
‘He 's of the gay Gordons, his name it is John.’

‘Oh, Logie! Oh, Logie! Oh, Logie!’ said she,
‘If I get na Glenlogie, I surely will dee.’

He turned him aboot, as the Gordons do a',

While o'er the Deep Thy Servants Sail

1. While o'er the deep thy servants sail,
2. If on the morning's wings they fly,
Send thou, O Lord, the prosperous gale;
They will not pass beyond thine eye.
And on their hearts where'er they go,
The wanderer's prayer thou bendst to hear,
O let thy heavenly breezes blow.
And faith exults to know thee near.

3. When tempests rock the groaning bark,
O hide them safe in Jesus' ark;
When in the tempting port they ride,
O keep them safe at Jesus' side.

4. If life's wide ocean smile or roar,
Still guide them to the heavenly shore;

Song

As yonder lone and lovely star
Hangs o'er the western hills afar,
And, pausing in its downward flight,
Longs lingering for the coming night,
Long I for thee!

The last fond flowers, that loved to fling
Their fragrance on the breath of spring,
And pine beneath the skies of June,
Mourn not so for the waning moon,
As I for thee!

The wild bird fills the vocal grove
With wailings for his absent love;
So every passing breath of air
Must on its buoyant pinions bear
Some sigh for thee!

That lovely star shall wax and wane,

The Lure of Little Voices

T HERE'S a cry from out the Loneliness—oh, listen, Honey, listen!
Do you hear it, do you fear it, you're a-holding of me so?
You're a sobbing in your sleep, dear, and your lashes, how they glisten!
Do you hear the Little Voices all a-begging me to go?

All a-begging me to leave you. Day and night they're pleading, praying,
On the North-wind, on the West-wind, from the peak and from the plain;
Night and day they never leave me—do you know what they are saying?
‘He was ours before you got him, and we want him once again.’

The Launch

Forth , to the alien gravity,
Forth, to the laws of ocean, we,
Builders on earth by laws of land,
Entrust this creature of our hand
Upon the calculated sea.

Fast bound to shore we cling, we creep,
And make our ship ready to leap
Light to the flood, equipped to ride
The strange conditions of the tide—
New weight, new force, new world: the Deep.

Ah thus—not thus—the Dying, kissed,
Cherished, exhorted, shriven, dismissed;
By all the eager means we hold
We, warm, prepare him for the cold,
To keep the incalculable tryst.

Come, Landlord, Fill a Flowing Bowl

Come, landlord, fill a flowing bowl, until it does run over;
To-night we all will merry be, To-morrow we'll get sober.

He that drinks strong beer and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to live, and dies a hearty fellow.

Punch cures the gout, the cholic and the tisic,
And is to all men the very best of physic.

He that drinks small beer, and goes to bed sober,
Falls as the leaves do that die in October.

He that drinks strong beer and goes to bed mellow,
Lives as he ought to live, and dies a happy fellow.
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