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I'll carry the dead corpse to the clay,
And I'll come back and comfort thee."

"Comfort weel your seven sons,
For comforted I will never be.

I trow 'twas neither knave nor loon
Was in the bower last night wi' me."

The clinking bell gaed through the town,
And carried the dead corpse to the clay.
Clerk Saunders stood at may Margaret's window,
I wot, an hour before the day.

"Are ye sleeping, Margaret ?" he says,
"Or are ye waking presentlie?
Give me my faith and troth again,
I wot, true love, I gied to thee."

"Your faith and troth ye sall never get,
Nor our true love sall never twin,
Until ye come within my bower,
And kiss me cheek and chin."

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My mouth it is full cold, Margaret,
It has the smell, now, of the ground;

And if I kiss thy comely mouth

Thy days will soon be at an end.

"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;

Give me my faith and troth again,
And let me fare me on my way."

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Thy faith and troth thou sall na get,
And our true love sall never twin,
Until tell what comes o' women,
ye

Wot ye, who die in strong traivelling?"

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"Their beds are made in the heavens high, Down at the foot of our good Lord's knee, Weel set about wi' gillyflowers;

I wot, sweet company for to see.

"O, cocks are crowing a merry midnight,
I wot the wild fowls are boding day;
The psalms of heaven will soon be sung,
And I, ere now, will be miss'd away."

Then she has taken a chrisom wand,

And she has stroken her troth thereon; She has given it to him at the shot-window, Wi' mony a sad sigh and heavy groan.

"I thank ye, Marg'ret; I thank ye, Marg❜ret; Ever I thank ye heartilie;

But gin I were living, as I am dead,

I'd keep my faith and troth with thee.”

It's hosen and shoon, and gown alone,
She climb'd the wall and follow'd him,
Until she came to the green forest,

And there she lost the sight o' him.

"Is there ony room at your head, Saunders? Is there ony room at your feet?

Is there ony room at your side, Saunders?
Where fain, fain, I wad sleep."

"There's nae room at my head, Marg❜ret, There's nae room at my feet;

My bed it is fu' lowly now,

Amang the hungry worms I sleep.

"Cauld mould it is my covering now, But and my winding-sheet;

The dew it falls nae sooner down
Than my resting-place is weet."

Then up and crew the red red cock,
And up and crew the gray :

""Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Marg❜ret,
That you were going away.

"And fair Margret, and rare Marg❜ret, And Margret, o' veritie,

Gin e'er ye love another man,

Ne'er love him as ye did me."

INVOCATION OF SILENCE.

TILL-BORN Silence! thou that art

Floodgate of the deeper bath.

Offspring of a heavenly kind,

Frost o' the mouth, and thaw o' the mind,
Secresy's confidant, and he

Who makes religion mystery,

Admiration's speaking'st tongue,
Leave, thy desert shades among,
Reverend hermits' hallow'd cells,
Where retired Devotion dwells,-
With thy enthusiasms come,

Seize our tongues, and strike us dumb!

RICHARD FLECKnoe.

W

CLARIBEL.

A MELODY.

HERE Claribel low-lieth The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall: But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With an ancient melody Of an inward agony, Where Claribel low-lieth.

At eve the beetle boometh
Athwart the thicket lone:
At noon the wild-bee hummeth
About the moss'd headstone :
At midnight the moon cometh,
And looketh down alone.

Her song the lintwhite swelleth,
The clear-voiced mavis dwelleth,

The fledgling throstle lispeth,
The slumbrous wave outwelleth,

The babbling runnel crispeth, The hollow grot replieth

Where Claribel low-lieth.

TENNYSON.

[FRANCE SEEN FROM THE COAST OF

ENGLAND.]

SEPTEMBER, 1802.

NLAND, within a hollow vale, I stood;

And saw, while sea was calm and air was clear, The coast of France-the coast of France how near! Drawn almost into frightful neighbourhood.

I shrunk; for verily the barrier flood

Was like a lake, or river bright and fair,
A span of waters; yet what power is there!
What mightiness for evil and for good!
Even so doth God protect us if we be

Virtuous and wise. Winds blow, and waters roll,
Strength to the brave, and Power, and Deity;
Yet in themselves are nothing! One decree
Spake laws to them, and said that by the soul
Only, the Nations shall be great and free.

WORDSWORTH.

THE SOWER'S SONG.

OW hands to seed-sheet, boys,

We step and we cast; old Time's on wing;

And would ye partake of Harvest's joys,

The corn must be sown in Spring.

Fall gently and still, good corn,

Lie warm in thy earthy bed;
And stand so yellow some morn,

For beast and man must be fed.

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