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'If I must pull off my Holland smock,
Pray turn thy back unto me,

For it is not fitting that such a ruffian
A woman unclad should see.'

He turned his back towards her,
And viewed the leaves so green;
She catch'd him round the middle so small,
And tumbled him into the stream.

He dropped high, and he dropped low,
Until he came to the tide,-

'Catch hold of my hand, my pretty maiden,
And I will make you my bride.'

'Lie there, lie there, you false-hearted man,
Lie there instead of me;

Six pretty maidens have you drowned here,
And the seventh has drowned thee.'

She mounted on her milk-white steed,
And led the dapple grey,

She rode till she came to her father's hall,
Three hours before it was day.

Old Ballad

CXI

SPRING

Spring, the sweet Spring, is the year's pleasant king;

Then blooms each thing, then maids dance in a ring; Cold doth not sting, the pretty birds do sing, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo!

The palm and the may make country houses gay, Lambs frisk and play, the shepherds pipe all day, And we hear aye birds tune this merry lay, Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

The fields breathe sweet, the daisies kiss our feet,
Young lovers meet, old wives a sunning sit,
In every street these tunes our ears do greet,
Cuckoo, jug-jug, pu-we, to-witta-woo.

Spring, the sweet Spring.

T. Nash

CXII

SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST

There came a ghost to Margaret's door,
With many a grievous groan,

And aye he tirled at the pin,
But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip,

Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home?'

"Tis not thy father Philip,

Nor yet thy brother John;

But 'tis thy true love Willy,

From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret,

I

pray thee speak to me:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win,

Till that thou come within my bower
And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower,
I am no earthly man:
And should I kiss thy rosy lips
Thy days would not be lang.

‘O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me:

Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win,

Till you take me to yon kirk-yard,

And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard

Afar beyond the sea,

And it is but my spirit, Margaret,
That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best:

'Have there your faith and troth, Willy, God send your soul good rest.'

Q

Now she has kilted her robes of green

A piece below her knee;

And all the live-long winter night
The dead corpse followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, Willy,
Or any room at your feet?
Or any room at your side, Willy,
Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's no room at my head, Margaret,

There's no room at my feet;

There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up then crew the grey;

"Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.'

CXIII

Old Ballad

THE FOUNTAIN

Into the sunshine,

Full of the light,
Leaping and flashing
From morn till night!

Into the moonlight,

Whiter than snow,
Waving so flower-like

When the winds blow!

Into the starlight,
Rushing in spray,
Happy at midnight,
Happy by day!

Ever in motion,

Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward,

Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers,
Still seeming best,
Upward or downward
Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature
Nothing can tame,
Changed every moment,
Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring,

Ceaseless content,

Darkness or sunshine
Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be

Fresh, changeful, constant,
Upward like thee!

F. R. Lowell

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