RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. THOMAS CHATTERTON. -- 79 Sae haud your tongue an' say nae mair, RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERI tell ye 't was a rat.' IDAN. [1751-1816.] HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD HAD I a heart for falsehood framed, For though your tongue no promise claimed, Your charms would make me true: To you no soul shall bear deceit, No stranger offer wrong; But friends in all the aged you'll meet, For when they learn that you have blest THOMAS CHATTERTON. [1752-1770.] THE MINSTREL'S SONG IN ELLA. O, SING unto my roundelay! O, drop the briny tear with me! Dance no more at holiday, Like a running river be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Black his hair as the winter night, White his neck as the summer snow, Gone to his death-bed, Sweet his tongue as throstle's note, Gone to his death-bed, Hark! the raven flaps his wing Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. See the white moon shines on high; Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, All the sorrows of a maid. Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers Gone to his death-bed, Come with acorn cup and thorn, Gone to his death-bed, GEORGE CRABBE. [1754-1832.] ISAAC ASHFORD. NEXT to these ladies, but in naught allied, A noble peasant, Isaac Ashford, died. Noble he was, contemning all things mean, His truth unquestioned and his soul serene: Of no man's presence Isaac felt afraid; At no man's question Isaac looked dismayed: Shame knew him not, he dreaded no disgrace; Truth, simple truth, was written in his face; Yet while the serious thought his soul' approved, Cheerful he seemed, and gentleness he loved; To bliss domestic he his heart resigned, And with the firmest, had the fondest mind. Were others joyful, he looked smiling on, And gave allowance where he needed none; Good he refused with future ill to buy, Nor knew a joy that caused reflection's sigh. A friend to virtue, his unclouded breast No envy stung, no jealousy distressed (Bane of the poor! it wounds their weaker mind To miss one favor which their neighbors find); Yet far was he from stoic pride removed; He felt humanely, and he warmly loved. I marked his action when his infant died, And his old neighbor for offence was tried; The still tears, stealing down that furrowed cheek, Spoke pity plainer than the tongue can speak. If pride were his, 't was not their vulgar pride Who, in their base contempt, the great deride; Nor pride in learning, though my clerk agreed, If fate should call him, Ashford might succeed; Nor pride in rustic skill, although we knew None his superior, and his equals few: But if that spirit in his soul had place, It was the jealous pride that shuns disgrace; A pride in honest fame, by virtue gained, In sturdy boys to virtuous labors trained; Pride in the power that guards his coun try's coast, And all that Englishmen enjoy and boast; Pride in a life that slander's tongue defied, In fact, a noble passion, misnamed pride. He had no party's rage, no sectary's whim; Christian and countryman was all with | But came not there, for sudden was his denied) That in yon house for ruined age provide, And they are just; when young, we give you all, And then for comforts in our weakness call. Why then this proud reluctance to be fed, To join your poor and eat the parishbread? But yet I linger, loath with him to feed Who gains his plenty by the sons of need: He who, by contract, all your paupers took, And gauges stomachs with an anxious look: On some old master I could well depend; See him with joy and thank him as a friend; But ill on him who doles the day's supply, And counts our chances who at night may die: Yet help me, Heaven! and let me not complain Of what befalls me, but the fate sustain." Such were his thoughts, and so resigned he grew; Daily he placed the work house in his view! fate, He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate. Round the bald polish of that honored head; No more that awful glance on playful wight Compelled to kneel and tremble at the sight, To fold his fingers all in dread the while, Till Mister Ashford softened to a smile; No more that meek and suppliant look in prayer, Nor the pure faith (to give it force) are there: . But he is blest, and I lament no more, A wise good man contented to be poor. SAMUEL ROGERS. [1763-1855.] A WISH. MINE be a cot beside the hill; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Around my ivied porch shall spring Where first our marriage-vows were given, ITALIAN SONG. DEAR is my little native vale, The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, In orange groves and myrtle bowers, The shepherd's horn at break of day, Yestreen when to the trembling string The dance gaed through the lighted ha', To thee my fancy took its wing, I sat, but neither heard nor saw. O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace ROBERT BURNS. [1759-1796.] OF A' THE AIRTS THE WIND CAN BLAW. OF a' the airts the wind can blaw, For there the bonnie lassie lives, There wild woods grow, and rivers row, I see her in the dewy flowers, I hear her in the tunefu' birds, By fountain, shaw, or green, MARY MORISON. O MARY, at thy window be! It is the wished, the trysted hour! Those smiles and glances let me see, That make the miser's treasure poor: How blithely wad I bide the stoure, A weary slave frae sun to sun, Could I the rich reward secure, The lovely Mary Morison. HIGHLAND MARY. YE banks and braes and streams around Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk, Wi' monie a vow and locked embrace We tore ourselves asunder; O pale, pale now, those rosy lips |