The Blue Poetry Book. Lang Andrew

      When my mother died I was very young,

      And my father sold me while yet my tongue

      Could scarcely cry, ‘’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’

      So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

      There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,

      That curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,

      ‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,

      You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

      And so he was quiet: and that very night,

      As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight,

      That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,

      Were all of them lock’d up in coffins of black.

      And by came an angel, who had a bright key,

      And he open’d the coffins, and set them all free;

      Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,

      And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

      Then, naked and white, all their bags left behind,

      They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;

      And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,

      He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.

      And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,

      And got with our bags and our brushes to work;

      Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:

      So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

      Hear what Highland Nora said, —

      ‘The Earlie’s son I will not wed,

      Should all the race of nature die,

      And none be left but he and I.

      For all the gold, for all the gear,

      And all the lands both far and near,

      That ever valour lost or won,

      I would not wed the Earlie’s son.’

      ‘A maiden’s vows,’ old Callum spoke,

      ‘Are lightly made, and lightly broke;

      The heather on the mountain’s height

      Begins to bloom in purple light;

      The frost-wind soon shall sweep away

      That lustre deep from glen and brae;

      Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,

      May blithely wed the Earlie’s son.’ —

      ‘The swan,’ she said, ‘the lake’s clear breast

      May barter for the eagle’s nest;

      The Awe’s fierce stream may backward turn,

      Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;

      Our kilted clans, when blood is high,

      Before their foes may turn and fly;

      But I, were all these marvels done,

      Would never wed the Earlie’s son.’

      Still in the water-lily’s shade

      Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;

      Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,

      Still downward foams the Awe’s fierce river;

      To shun the clash of foeman’s steel,

      No Highland brogue has turn’d the heel:

      But Nora’s heart is lost and won,

      – She’s wedded to the Earlie’s son!

      Fair stood the wind for France,

      When we our sails advance,

      Nor now to prove our chance

      Longer will tarry;

      But putting to the main,

      At Caux, the mouth of Seine,

      With all his martial train,

      Landed King Harry.

      And, taking many a fort,

      Furnished in warlike sort,

      Marcheth tow’rds Agincourt

      In happy hour,

      (Skirmishing day by day,

      With those oppose his way)

      Where the French general lay

      With all his power.

      Which in his height of pride,

      King Henry to deride,

      His ransom to provide

      To the king sending;

      Which he neglects the while,

      As from a nation vile,

      Yet with an angry smile

      Their fall portending,

      And, turning to his men,

      Quoth our brave Henry then:

      Though they to one be ten,

      Be not amazèd!

      Yet have we well begun;

      Battles so bravely won,

      Have ever to the sun

      By fame been raisèd.

      And for myself (quoth he), —

      This