Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime o' our land, are cauld in the clay. 20 We hear nae mair lilting at our ewe-milking; WE ARE SEVEN -A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, What should it know of death? She was eight years old, she said; That clustered round her head. 1 She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair, 8 12 "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” "How many? Seven in all," she said And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." “Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Then did the little Maid reply, 46 Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, "You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five." ་་ “Their graves are green, they may be seen The little Maid replied, 16 20 24 28 32 36 Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, 66 And sing a song to them. And often after sunset, Sir, I take my little porringer, "The first that died was sister Jane; Till God released her of her pain; 'So in the church-yard she was laid; And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "But they are dead; those two are dead! 1798. William Wordsworth. 64 68 LUCY GRAY OR, SOLITUDE OFT I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew; -The sweetest thing that ever grew Beside a human door! You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray Will never more be seen. 12 "To-night will be a stormy night You to the town must go; And take a lantern, Child, to light 1 Your mother through the snow." "That, Father! will I gladly do: "T is scarcely afternoon The minster-clock has just struck two, 16 20 At this the Father raised his hook, And snapped a fagot-band; He plied his work; -and Lucy took The lantern in her hand. 24 Not blither is the mountain roe: With many a wanton stroke Her feet disperse the powdery snow, 28 The storm came on before its time: She wandered up and down; And many a hill did Lucy climb: But never reached the town. The wretched parents all that night At day-break on the hill they stood 32 36 |