THOMAS CHATTERTON. 79

"Wad ye ca' me a leear to my very face? My faith, but ye craw croose!—

I tell ye, Tib, I never will bear 't,
'T was a mouse."""T was a rat.
"'T was a mouse."

Wi' that she struck him ower the pow.
"Ye dour auld doit, tak' that!
Gae to your bed, ye cankered sumph!
'T was a rat. "T was a mouse!".
"'T was a rat!"

She sent the brose-cup at his heels

As he hirpled ben the house;

But he shoved out his head as he steekit

the door,

An' cried, "T was a mouse, 't was a mouse!"

Yet when the auld carle fell asleep,
She paid him back for that,
An' roared into his sleepin' lug,

""T was a rat, 't was a rat, 't was a rat!"

The deil be wi' me, if I think

It was a beast at all.

Next mornin', when she sweept the floor, She found wee Johnie's ball!

IDAN. [1751-1816.]

HAD I A HEART FOR FALSEHOOD

FRAMED.

HAD I a heart for falsehood framed,
I ne'er could injure you;

For though your tongue no promise claimed,

To you no soul shall bear deceit,
Your charms would make me true:

No stranger offer wrong;

But friends in all the aged you 'll meet,
And lovers in the young.

For when they learn that you have blest
Another with your heart,
They'll bid aspiring passion rest,
And act a brother's part.
Then, lady, dread not here deceit,
Nor fear to suffer wrong;
For friends in all the aged you'll meet,
And brothers in the young.

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, Ruddy his face as the morning light; Cold he lies in the grave below. My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Sweet his tongue as throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought was he;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

See the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

Here, upon my true-love's grave,
Shall the garish flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save

All the sorrows of a maid.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,

All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll bind the briers

Round his holy corse to gre;
Elfin-fairy, light your fires,
Here my body still shall be.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.

Come with acorn cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood all away;
Life and all its good I scorn,

Dance by night, or feast by day.
My love is dead,

Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your deadly tide.
I die I come-my true-love waits.
Thus the damsel spake, and died.

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 dis

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But came not there, for sudden was his fate,

He dropt expiring at his cottage-gate.

I feel his absence in the hours of prayer, And view his seat, and sigh for Isaac there; I see no more those white locks thinly spread

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;
A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear;
A willowy brook that turns a mill,
With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing
In russet gown and apron blue.

The village-church among the trees,
Where first our marriage-vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze,
And point with taper spire to heaven.

ITALIAN SONG.

DEAR is my little native vale,
The ring-dove builds and murmurs there;
Close by my cot she tells her tale
To every passing villager.