'I saw the new moon, late yestreen,
'Wi' the auld moon in her arm;
'And, if we gang to sea, master,

'I fear we'll come to harm.'

They hadna sailed a league, a league,

A league but barely three,

When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea.

O laith, laith, were our gude Scots lords
To wet their cork-heeled shoon;
But long or a' the play was played,
They wat their hats aboon.

O lang, lang may their ladyes sit
Wi' their fans into their hand,
Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand!

And lang, lang may the maidens sit,

Wi' their goud kaims in their hair,
Awaiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they'll see na mair.

Half o'er, half o'er to Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathom deep :

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

FORESTER'S SONG.

(As you Like It.)

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

W. Shakespeare.

A CRY OF HOUNDS.

(A Midsummer Night's Dream.)

THESEUS-HIPPOLYTA.

Theseus. Go, one of you, find out the forester;

For now our observation is performed;

And since we have the vaward of the day,

My love shall hear the music of my hounds.

Uncouple in the western valley; let them go :
Dispatch, I say, and find the forester.

[Exit an attendant.

We will, fair queen, up to the mountain's top
And mark the musical confusion

Of hounds and echo in conjunction.

Hippolyta. I was with Hercules and Cadmus once,
When in a wood of Crete they bayed the bear
With hounds of Sparta : never did I hear
Such gallant chiding; for, besides the groves,
The skies, the fountains, every region near
Seemed all one mutual cry: I never heard
So musical a discord, such sweet thunder.

Theseus. My hounds are bred out of the Spartan kind,
So flewed, so sanded, and their heads are hung
With ears that sweep away the morning dew;
Crook-kneed, and dew-lapped like Thessalian bulls;
Slow in pursuit, but matched in mouth like bells,
Each under each. A cry more tuneable

Was never holla'd to, nor cheered with horn,
In Crete, in Sparta, nor in Thessaly;
Judge, when you hear.

W. Shakespeare.

THE HORSE.

(Venus and Adonis.)

Look, when a painter would surpass the life,
In limning out a well-proportioned steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone.

Round-hoofed, short-joined, fetlocks shag and long, Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide, High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong, Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide : Look, what a horse should have he did not lack, Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

W. Shakespeare.

THE GARDEN OF ADONIS.

(Faery Queen.)

THERE is continual spring, and harvest there
Continual, both meeting at one time :
For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear,
And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime,
And eke at once the heavy trees they climb,
Which seem to labour under their fruits load :
The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime
Amongst the shady leaves their sweet abode,
And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.

Right in the middest of that Paradise

There stood a stately mount, on whose round top
A gloomy grove of myrtle trees did rise,
Whose shady boughs sharp steel did never lop,
Nor wicked beasts their tender buds did crop,

But like a garland compassèd the height,

And from their fruitful sides sweet gum did drop,
That all the ground, with precious dew bedight,

Throw forth most dainty odours and most sweet delight.

And in the thickest covert of that shade
There was a pleasant arbour, not by art
But of the trees' own inclination made,

Which knitting their rank branches, part to part,
With wanton ivy-twine entrailed athwart,
And eglantine and caprifole among,

Fashioned above within their inmost part,

That neither Phoebus' beams could through them throng Nor Eolus' sharp blast could work them any wrong.

And all about grew every sort of flower,

To which sad lovers were transformed of yore;
Fresh Hyacinthus, Phoebus' paramour

And dearest love;

Foolish Narcisse, that likes the watery shore ;

Sad Amaranthus, made a flower but late,

Sad Amaranthus, in whose purple gore

Meseems I see Amintas' wretched fate,

To whom sweet poet's verse hath given endless date.

L'ALLEGRO.

E. Spenser.

HENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn,

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell,

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks,

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.