English

Hit 's a mighty fur ways up de Far'well Lane,
My honey, my love!
You may ax Mister Crow, you may ax Mister Crane,
My honey, my love!
Dey'll make you a bow, en dey'll tell you de same,
My honey, my love!
Hit's a mighty fur ways fer ter go in de night,
My honey, my love!
My honey, my love, my heart's delight —
My honey, my love!

Mister Mink, he creeps twel he wake up de snipe,
My honey, my love!
Mister Bull-Frog holler, Come alight my pipe!
My honey, my love!

I

Into a little close of mine I went
One morning, when the sun with his fresh light
Was rising all refulgent and unshent.
Rose-trees are planted there in order bright,
Whereto I turned charmed eyes, and long did stay,
Taking my fill of that new-found delight.
Red and white roses bloomed upon the spray;
One opened, leaf by leaf, to greet the morn,

Senex to Matt. Prior
Ah Matt.: old age has brought to me
Thy wisdom, less thy certainty:
The world's a jest, and joy's a trinket:
I knew that once: but now--I think it.
Cynicus to W. Shakspere

You wrote a line too much, my sage,
Of seers the first, and first of sayers;
For only half the world's a stage,
And only all the women players.

The years that go to make me man
this day are told a score and six
that should have set me magian
o'er my half-souls that struggle and mix.

But wisdom still remains a star
just hung within my aching ken,
and common prudence dwells afar
among contented homes of men.

In wide revolt and ruin tost
against whatever is or seems,
my futile heart still wanders lost
in the same vast and impotent dreams.

On either hand life hurries by
its common joy, its common mirth;
I reach vague hands of sympathy

My heart was wandering in the sands
a restless thing, a scorn apart;
Love set his fire in my hands,
I clasped the flame into my heart.

Surely, I said, my heart shall turn
one fierce delight of pointed flame,
and in that holocaust shall burn
its old unrest of scorn and shame.

Surely my heart the heavens at last
shall storm with fiery orisons
and know, enthroned in the vast,
the fervid peace of molten suns.

The flame that feeds upon my heart
fades or flares, by wild winds controlled;

The Offspring of this Miscellaneous Crowd,
Had not their new Plantations long enjoy'd,
But they grew Englishmen , and rais'd their Votes
At Foreign Shoals of Interloping Scots .
The Royal Branch from Pict-land did succeed,
With Troops of Scots and Scabs from North-by-Tweed .
The Seven first Years of his Pacifick Reign,
Made him and half his Nation Englishmen .
Scots from the Northern Frozen Banks of Tay ,
With Packs and Plods came Whigging all away:
Thick as the Locusts which in Egypt swarm'd,

The Conclusion

Then let us boast of ancestors no more,
Or deeds of heroes done in days of yore,
In latent records of the ages past,
Behind the rear of time, in long oblivion placed.
For if our virtues must in lines descend,
The merit with the families would end,

And intermixtures would most fatal grow,
For vices would be hereditary too;
The tainted blood would, of necessity,
Involuntary wickedness convey.

Vice, like ill-nature, for an age or two
May seem a generation to pursue;

The Temper of the Breed

The breed's described: Now, Satire, if you can,
Their temper show, for manners make the man.
Fierce as the Briton, as the Roman brave,
And less inclined to conquer than to save:
Eager to fight, and lavish of their blood,
And equally of fear and forecast void.
The Pict has made 'em sour, the Dane morose,
False from the Scot, and from the Norman worse.
What honesty they have, the Saxon gave them,
And that, now they grow old, begins to leave them.
The climate makes them terrible and bold;

Ther with, when he was ware and gan beholde
How shet was every window of the place,
As frost, him thoughte, his herte gan to colde;
For which with chaunged dedlich pale face,
Withouten word, he forthby gan to pace;
And, as God wolde, he gan so faste ride
That no wight of his contenaunce espide.

Then saide he thus: " O palais desolat,
O hous, of houses whilom best y-hight,
O palais empty and disconsolat,
O thou lanterne of which queint is the light,
O palais, whilom day, that now art night,

But as she sat allone and thoughte thus,
Ascry aros at scarmuch al withoute,
And men cride in the strete: " See, Troilus
Hath right now put to flight the Grekes route!"
With that gan al hir meyne for to shoute:
" A, go we see! cast up the yates wide!
For through this strete he mot to paleis ride:

" For other way is fro the yate non
Of Dardanus, there open is the chaine."
With that com he and al his folk anon
An esy pas riding, in routes twaine,
Right as his happy day was, sooth to sayne,