Count not Spanish ladies wayward,

Though to thee my love was bent: Joy and true prosperity go still with thee!' 'The like fall ever to thy share, most fair lady,'

Old Ballad

CXVII

LITTLE WHITE LILY

Little white Lily

Sat by a stone,

Drooping and waiting

Till the sun shone.

Little white Lily

Sunshine has fed;

Little white Lily
Is lifting her head.

Little white Lily
Said, 'It is good;
Little white Lily's
Clothing and food.'
Little white Lily,

Drest like a bride!

Shining with whiteness,
And crown'd beside !

Little white Lily
Droopeth with pain,
Waiting and waiting
For the wet rain.
Little white Lily
Holdeth her cup;
Rain is fast falling
And filling it up.

Little white Lily
Said, 'Good again,
When I am thirsty
To have nice rain;
Now I am stronger,
Now I am cool;

Heat cannot burn me,

My veins are so full.'

Little white Lily

Smells very sweet:

On her head sunshine,

Rain at her feet.

'Thanks to the sunshine,
Thanks to the rain !
Little white Lily

Is happy again!

G. MacDonald

CXVIII

MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA

O sing unto my roundelay;

O drop the briny tear with me ; Dance no more at holiday;

Like a running river be;

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Black his hair as the winter night,

White his neck as summer snow, Ruddy his face as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below.

My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be ;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;

O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the brier'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the night-mares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See, the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true love's shroud;
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

T. Chatterton

CXIX

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG

Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song;
And if you find it wondrous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,

And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;

But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain his private ends,

Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets

The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

R

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every christian eye:

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied,
The man recover'd of the bite,

The dog it was that died.

O. Goldsmith

CXX

NONGTONGPAW

John Bull for pastime took a prance,
Some time ago, to peep at France;
To talk of sciences and arts,

And knowledge gain'd in foreign parts.
Monsieur, obsequious, heard him speak,
And answer'd John in heathen Greek :
To all he ask'd, 'bout all he saw,
'Twas, ‘Monsieur, je vous n'entends pas.'

John, to the Palais-Royal come,

Its splendour almost struck him dumb.

I say, whose house is that there here?'

'House! Je vous n'entends pas, Monsieur.' 'What, Nongtongpaw again!' cries John; 'This fellow is some mighty Don: No doubt he's plenty for the maw, I'll breakfast with this Nongtongpaw.'

John saw Versailles from Marli's height,
And cried, astonish'd at the sight,