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The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;
Quoth Sir Ralph, – “The next who comes to
the rock
Wont bless the abbot of Aberbrothok.”

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,
He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o’erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land;
Quoth Sir Ralph, – “It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.”

“Can'st hear,” said one, “the breakers roar,
For methinks we should be near the shore ?”
“Now where we are I cannot tell,
But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell.”

They hear no sound; the swell is strong; Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along; Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock; O Death ! it is the Inchcape rock.


Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair,
He cursed himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

TO MY BIRDIE. — Mrs. Southey.

HERE's only you an’ me, Birdie here's only you
an’ me !
An' there you sit, you humdrum fowl!
Sae mute an' mopish as an owl, -
Sour companie

Sing me a little song, Birdie! lift up a little lay !
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye
To stun them with your minstrelsie,
The lee lang day;

An' now we’re only twa, Birdie an’ now we 're
only twa;
*T were sure but kind and cozie, Birdie :
To charm wi' yere wee hurdie-gurdie
Dull care awa’.

Ye ken when folks are paired, Birdie! ye ken when
folks are paired,
Life's fair, an’ foul, and freakish weather,
An' light an’ lumbring loads, thegither
Maun a’ be shared;

An' shared wi' looin' hearts, Birdie wi' looin hearts
and free,
Fu’ fashious loads may weel be borne;
An' roughest roads to velvet turn,

Trod cheerfully.

We’ve all our cares and crosses, Birdie! we’ve a
our cares an’ crosses;
But then to sulk an’ sit so glum,
Hout! tout! what guid o' that can come
To mend one's losses?

Ye're clipt in wiry fence, Birdie! ye ’re clipt in
wiry fence,
An' aiblins I, gin Imote gang
Upo' a wish, wad be or lang
Wi’ friends far hence;

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But what’s a wish, ye ken, Birdie! but what's a
wish, ye ken,
Nae cantrip mag, like hers of Fife,
Who darnit wi' the auld weird wife,
Flood, fell, an’ fen.

T is true ye're furnished fair, Birdie 'tis true ye're
furnished fair, -
Wi’ a braw pair of bonnie wings
Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings
High up i' th' air;

But then that wire's sae strang, Birdie! but then that
wire's sae strang!
An' I myself, sae seemin' free, –
Nae wings have I to waften me

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An' sae we’d baith our wills, Birdie we’d each out
wilfu' way;
Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly;
An' snares an’ pitfa's often lie
Whar wishes stray.

An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie an’ ae thing weel
I wot,
There's ane abune the highest sphere
Wha cares for a’ his creatures here,
Marks every lot;

Wha guards the crownéd king, Birdie wha guards
the crownéd king,
An' taketh heed for sic as me, –
Sae little worth, – an’ elen for thee,
Puir witless thing!

Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie an' sin’ we're
only twa - -
Aff han’— let's ilk ane do our best,
To ding that crabbit, cankered pest,
Dull care awa’


HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine !
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup doth fill;

'T is filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self 's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king !
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough :
Farmer he, and landlord thou !
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou
Dost neither age nor winter know ;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

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“HAST thou seen that lordly castle,
That castle by the sea?

Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.

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