O! can that soft and gentle mien Wilt thou assume the nurse's care; And cheer with smiles the bed of death? Where thou wert fairest of the fair? * * Burns says in reference to the above, "It is too barefaced to take Dr. Percy's charming song, and by means of transposing a few English words into Scots, to offer to pass it for a Scots song."-BURNS, Remarks on Scottish Songs and Ballads. THERE IS NAE LUCK ABOUT THE HOUSE. WILLIAM J. MICKLE.—1734-83. [This well-known and favourite poem, although of Scotch origin and generally attributed, but with some little doubt, to William Mickle, is by its universal appreciation entitled to a place in an English collection. It often appears under the title of "The Sailor's Return;" but the more popular title is taken from its familiar refrain. The reputed author's works do not contain this poem; but Allan Cunningham, a good authority, considers that the evidence is in favour of its being Mickle's production, as it was found amongst his papers with corrections in his writing.] AND are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Is this the time to spin a thread, Reach down my cloak, I'll to the quay, For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, When our gudeman's awa'. And gie to me my bigonet, For I maun tell the Baillie's wife Rise, lass, and mak a clean fireside, Gie little Kate her button gown And Jock his Sunday coat; And mak their shoon as black as slaes, There's twa fat hens upo' the coop Been fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare; And spread the table neat and clean, Gar ilka thing look braw, For wha can tell how Colin fared When he was far awa? Sae true his heart, sae smooth his speech, His breath like caller air; His very foot has music in't And will I see his face again? If Colin's weel, and weel content, For there's nae luck about the house, There's little pleasure in the house, MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. THOMAS CHATTERTON.-1752-70. [Strictly speaking, no poetry by this author has attained the designation of favourite on its own merits; but his unparalleled early genius for poetry and his untimely fate give him a claim to rank in the position his career attained in public estimation and sympathy. He died by his own hand in his eighteenth year, leaving behind him evidences of talent that have never been surpassed at such an age. Malone, one of his critics, says of him, that "he is the greatest genius that England has produced since the time of Shakespeare." The second poem given affords an extraordinary indication of the variations of his temperament, and gives rise to a deep regret that their unfortunate author failed to retain the full exercise of his religious impressions. It has been well and touchingly remarked of his memory that posterity may be excused if, forgetting his faults in contemplation of his neglected state and sorrowful youth, it dwells only on his genius.] SING unto my roundelay; O drop the briny tear with me; Like a running river be; THE CHAMELEON. BY JAMES MERRICK.-—1720 1766. [ AT once amusing in verse and instructive in moral, this popular fable deserves a place in our volume; and although not of the highest character of poetry, yet it commends itself to selection by its old association with our school days and its favourite place in all Juvenile Speakers, its author, moreover, was a distinguished scholar. He took orders and became tutor to Lord North, but was obliged to abandon hope of preferment from delicate health. He is author of several hymns and a version of the Psalms. ] FT has it been my lot to mark OFT A proud, conceited, talking spark, Two travellers of such a cast, How slow its pace! and then its hue- From words they almost came to blows: To him the question they referred : "Sirs," cries the umpire, cease your pother; |