Sound a lament in the halls of his father
Waken the harp-string & pour forth a wail
The caves of the hill the sad echoes will gather
The chant will be sung by the wandering gale
Damp lies his corpse in the folds of the shroud
& low to the dust his bright forehead is bowed

Weep in thy chambers where music is sighing
Weep in thy palace fair bride of his heart
Thy love with the worms of corruption is lying
Thou from his bosom for ever must part
For ever, For ever, how sad is that word
When by the lone grave of the buried 'tis heard

Almighty hush the dying cries
That sound so sadly in mine ear
The sobs, the groans, the soul-breathed sighs
And wipe away the burning tear
That now wets many a gallant cheek
While pain wrings forth the wild death-shriek
From brave hearts steeled to fear

Voice of the solemn trumpet sound
Rend your dark mist-veil from the sky
Peirce through the war-shouts bursting round
And swell again triumphantly
For I would leave this mangl'ed clay
And pass to regions far-away
'Mid tones of victory

List to that sweet, heart-stirring strain

‘He set her on his bonnie black horse,
He set himsel on his good gray naigie;
He has ridden over hills, he has ridden over dales,
And he 's quite awa wi my bonny Peggy.

‘Her brow it is brent and her middle it is jimp,
Her arms are long and her fingers slender;
One sight of her eyes makes my very heart rejoice,
And wae 's my heart that we should sunder!’

His sheets were of the good green hay,
His blankets were of the brackens bonnie;
He 's laid his trews beneath her head,
And she 's lain down wi her Highland laddie.

My mother was a proud, proud woman,
A proud, proud woman and a bold;
She sent me to Queen Marie's bour,
When scarcely eleven years old.

Queen Marie's bread it was sae sweet,
An her wine it was sae fine,
That I hae lien in a young man's arms,
An I rued it aye synsyne.

Queen Marie she cam doon the stair,
Wi the goud kamis in her hair:
‘Oh whare, oh whare is the wee wee babe
I heard greetin sae sair?’

‘It's no a babe, a babie fair,
Nor ever intends to be;
But I mysel, wi a sair colic,
Was seek an like to dee.’

There lives a knight into the north,
And he had daughters three;
The ane of them was a barber's wife,
The other a gay ladie.

And the youngest of them is to Scotland gane,
The queen's Mary to be,
And a' that they could say or do,
Forbidden she woudna be.

The prince's bed it was sae saft,
The spices they were sae fine,
That out of it she couldna lye
While she was scarse fifteen.

She 's gane to the garden gay
To pu of the savin tree;
But for a' that she could say or do,
The babie it would not die.

Ich am of Irlonde
Ant of the holy londe
Of Irlonde.
Gode sire, pray ich thee,
For of saynte charite,
Come ant dance wyth me

Boccaccio, for you laughed all laughs that are—
The Cynic scoff, the chuckle of the churl,
The laugh that ripples over reefs of pearl,
The broad, the sly, the hugely jocular;
Men call you lewd, and coarse, allege you mar
The music that, withdrawn your ribald skirl,
Were sweet as note of mavis or of merle—
Wherefore they frown, and rate you at the bar.
One thing is proved: To count the sad degrees
Upon the Plague's dim dial, catch the tone
Of a great death that lies upon a land,
Feel nature's ties, yet hold with steadfast hand

Along all ways the path of triumph lies;
All places own the victor's art,—
To do that greater thing than win the prize,
Lose it, unhurt in hope, in heart.

These are the city's poets,
These people in the park,
Who sit and watch slow shadows
Melt into the dark;

Who come on Maytime evenings
Or on rich nights of June,
And see above the treetops
The bubble of the moon;

Who listen to the fountain
That tinkles all day long,
And let its echo lodge with them,
An anthem and a song.

Young lovers loiter gladly
In many a leafy place,
And look with the old wonder
Into each other's face.

These are the happy poets
Whom nothing can dismay,
Who keep wise dreams within their hearts

Cabo Tormentoso the sailors called it first,
And Stormy Cape all mariners shall find it evermore.
The passion of the hurricane on its iron rocks is nursed,
Veering winds of huge desire that thwart the plunging barque.
Pale witch-fires glisten on the wave and beacon from the shore,
And shipwrecked voices bid beware of gramarye accurst.
Cape of Good Hope! We seek it far across the waters dark,
But Cabo Tormentoso the sailors named it first.

By this wild cape the mariners go to their spicerie,
Weather-wasted mariners with dreaming, dreaming eyes.