Graded Poetry: Seventh Year Part 2

Ah luckless speech, and bootless boast!

For which he paid full dear; For, while he spake, a braying a.s.s Did sing most loud and clear;

Whereat his horse did snort, as he Had heard a lion roar, And gallop'd off with all his might, As he had done before.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went Gilpin's hat and wig: He lost them sooner than at first, For why?--they were too big.

Now Mistress Gilpin, when she saw Her husband posting down Into the country far away, She pull'd out half a crown;

And thus unto the youth she said, That drove them to the Bell, "This shall be yours, when you bring back My husband safe and well."

The youth did ride, and soon did meet John coming back amain; Whom in a trice he tried to stop, By catching at his rein;

But not performing what he meant, And gladly would have done, The frighted steed he frighted more, And made him faster run.

Away went Gilpin, and away Went postboy at his heels, The postboy's horse right glad to miss The lumbering of the wheels.

Six gentlemen upon the road, Thus seeing Gilpin fly, With postboy scampering in the rear, They raised the hue and cry:--

"Stop thief! stop thief!--a highwayman!"

Not one of them was mute; And all and each that pa.s.sed that way Did join in the pursuit.

And now the turnpike gates again Flew open in short s.p.a.ce; The toll-men thinking as before, That Gilpin rode a race.

And so he did, and won it too, For he got first to town; Nor stopp'd till where he had got up He did again get down.

Now let us sing, "Long live the king, And Gilpin long live he;"

And when he next doth ride abroad, May I be there to see!

ROBERT BURNS SCOTLAND, 1759-1796

BANNOCKBURN

ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front o' battle lower; See approach proud Edward's power-- Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?

Wha can fill a coward's grave?

Wha sae base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa', Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains!

By your sons in servile chains!

We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!

Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!-- Let us do or die!

MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth: Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH ENGLAND, 1770-1850

THE SOLITARY REAPER

Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary Highland la.s.s, Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pa.s.s!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; Oh, listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant So sweetly to reposing bands Of travelers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In springtime from the cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day, Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending.

I listened motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore Long after it was heard no more.

SONNET COMPOSED UPON WESTMINSTER BRIDGE, SEPTEMBER 3, 1802

Earth has not anything to show more fair: Dull would he be of soul who could pa.s.s by A sight so touching in its majesty: This city now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theaters, and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep In his first splendor valley, rock, or hill; Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear G.o.d! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!

WALTER SCOTT SCOTLAND, 1771-1832

"SOLDIER, REST!"

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking, In our isle's enchanted hall, Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall, Every sense in slumber dewing.

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows no breaking; Dream of battle-fields no more, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.