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Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The waves flowed over the Inchcape rock;
So little they rose, so little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.

The abbot of Aberbrothok

Had placed that bell on the Inchcape rock; On a buoy in the storm it floated and swung, And over the waves its warning rung.

When the rocks were hid by the surge's swell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous rock,
And blessed the abbot of Aberbrothok.

The sun in heaven was shining gay,
All things were joyful on that day;

The sea-birds screamed as they wheeled round,
And there was joyance in their sound.

The buoy of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker speck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph the Rover walked his deck,
And he fixed his eye on the darker speck.

He felt the cheering power of spring,
It made him whistle, it made him sing;
His heart was mirthful to excess,
But the Rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the Inchcape float;

Quoth he,

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My men, put out the boat,

And row me to the Inchcape rock,

And I'll plague the abbot of Aberbrothok."

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

The boat is lowered, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,

And he cut the bell from the Inchcape float.

Down sunk the bell with a gurgling sound,
The bubbles rose and burst around;

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to

the rock

Wont bless the abbot of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph the Rover sailed away;
He scoured the seas for many a day;
And now, grown rich with plundered store,

He steers his course for Scotland's shore.

So thick a haze o'erspreads the sky,
They cannot see the sun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day,
At evening it hath died away.

On the deck the Rover takes his stand;
So dark it is they see no land;

Quoth Sir Ralph,-"It will be lighter soon,
For there is the dawn of the rising moon.'

"Can'st hear," said one, “the breakers roar, For methinks we should be near the shore?" "Now where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."

They hear no sound; the swell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along;
Till the vessel strikes with a shivering shock;
O Death! it is the Inchcape rock.

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Sir Ralph the Rover tore his hair;
He cursed himself in his despair;
The waves rush in on every side,
The ship is sinking beneath the tide.

TO MY BIRDIE. - Mrs. Southey.

HERE's only you an' me, Birdie! here's only you

an' me!

An' there

you sit, you humdrum fowl! Sae mute an' mopish as an owl, —

Sour companie!

Sing me a little song, Birdie! lift up a little lay!
When folks are here, fu' fain are ye

To stun them with your

minstrelsie,

The lee lang day;

An' now we're only twa, Birdie! an' now we 're

only twa;

'T were sure but kind and cozie, Birdie !
To charm wi' yere wee hurdie-gurdie

Dull care awa'.

Ye ken when folks are paired, Birdie! ye ken when folks are paired,

Life's fair, an' foul, and freakish weather,

An' lignt an' lumbring loads, thegither

Maun a' be shared;

TO MY BIRDIE.

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An' shared wi' looin' hearts, Birdie! wi' looin hearts

and free,

Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne ;

An' roughest roads to velvet turn,

Trod cheerfully.

We've all our cares and crosses, Birdie! we've a' our cares an' crosses;

But then to sulk an' sit so glum,

Hout! tout! what guid o' that can come

To mend one's losses?

Ye're clipt in wiry fence, Birdie! ye 're clipt in

wiry fence,

An' aiblins I, gin I mote gang

Upo' a wish, wad be or lang

Wi' friends far hence;

But what's a wish, ye ken, Birdie! but what's a

wish, ye ken,

Nae cantrip nag, like hers of Fife,

Who darnit wi' the auld weird wife,

Flood, fell, an' fen.

'T is true ye 're furnished fair, Birdie! 't is true ye 're

furnished fair,

Wi' a braw pair of bonnie wings

Wad lift ye whar yon lav'rock sings

High up i' th' air;

But then that wire 's sae strang, Birdie! but then that

wire 's sae strang!

An' I myself, sae seemin' free,
Nae wings have I to waften me

Whar fain I'd gang.

An' sae we'd baith our wills, Birdie! we'd each our

wilfu' way;

Whar lav'rocks hover, falcons fly;

An' snares an' pitfa's often lie

Whar wishes stray.

An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie! an' ae thing weel

I wot,

There's ane abune the highest sphere

Wha cares for a' his creatures here,
Marks every lot;

Wha guards the crownéd king, Birdie! wha guards

the crownéd king,

An' taketh heed for sic as me,

Sae little worth, — an' e'en for thee,

Puir witless thing!

Sae now, let's baith cheer up, Birdie ! an' sin' we 're

only twa

Aff han'- let 's ilk ane do our best,

To ding that crabbit, cankered pest,

Dull care awa'!

THE GRASSHOPPER. - Cowley.

HAPPY insect! what can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup doth fill;

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