The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 38

CXII

_SWEET WILLIAM'S GHOST_

There came a ghost to Margaret's door, With many a grievous groan, And aye he tirled at the pin, But answer made she none.

'Is that my father Philip, Or is't my brother John?

Or is't my true love w.i.l.l.y, From Scotland new come home?'

''Tis not thy father Philip, Nor yet thy brother John; But 'tis thy true love w.i.l.l.y, From Scotland new come home.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till that thou come within my bower And kiss my cheek and chin.'

'If I should come within thy bower, I am no earthly man: And should I kiss thy rosy lips Thy days would not be lang.

'O sweet Margaret, O dear Margaret, I pray thee speak to me: Give me my faith and troth, Margaret, As I gave it to thee.'

'Thy faith and troth thou'lt never get, Nor yet wilt thou me win, Till you take me to yon kirk-yard, And wed me with a ring.'

'My bones are buried in yon kirk-yard Afar beyond the sea, And it is but my spirit, Margaret, That's now speaking to thee.'

She stretched out her lily-white hand, And for to do her best: 'Have there your faith and troth, w.i.l.l.y, G.o.d send your soul good rest.'

Now she has kilted her robes of green A piece below her knee; And all the live-long winter night The dead corpse followed she.

'Is there any room at your head, w.i.l.l.y, Or any room at your feet?

Or any room at your side, w.i.l.l.y, Wherein that I may creep?'

'There's no room at my head, Margaret, There's no room at my feet; There's no room at my side, Margaret, My coffin's made so meet.'

Then up and crew the red red c.o.c.k, And up then crew the grey; ''Tis time, 'tis time, my dear Margaret, That you were going away.'

_Old Ballad_

CXIII

_THE FOUNTAIN_

Into the sunshine, Full of the light, Leaping and flashing From morn till night!

Into the moonlight, Whiter than snow, Waving so flower-like When the winds blow!

Into the starlight, Rushing in spray, Happy at midnight, Happy by day!

Ever in motion, Blithesome and cheery, Still climbing heavenward, Never aweary;

Glad of all weathers, Still seeming best, Upward or downward Motion thy rest;

Full of a nature Nothing can tame, Changed every moment, Ever the same;

Ceaseless aspiring, Ceaseless content, Darkness or sunshine Thy element;

Glorious fountain!

Let my heart be Fresh, changeful, constant, Upward like thee!

_J. R. Lowell_

CXIV

_FAIR ROSAMUND_

When as King Henry ruled this land The second of that name, Above all else, he dearly loved A fair and comely dame.

Her crisped locks like threads of gold Appear'd to each man's sight; Her sparkling eyes, like orient pearls Did cast a heavenly light.

The blood within her crystal cheeks Did such a colour drive, As though the lily and the rose For mastership did strive.

Yea Rosamund, fair Rosamund, Her name was called so, To whom our queen, queen Ellinor Was known a deadly foe.

The king therefore, for her defence Against the furious queen, At Woodstock builded such a bower, The like was never seen.

Most curiously that bower was built, Of stone and timber strong, An hundred and fifty doors Did to this bower belong.

And they so cunningly contrived, With turnings round about, That none, but with a clue of thread, Could enter in and out.

And for his love and lady's sake.

That was so fair and bright, The keeping of this bower he gave Unto a valiant knight.

But fortune, that doth often frown Where she before did smile, The king's delight and lady's joy Full soon she did beguile:

For why? the king's ungracious son, Whom he did high advance, Against his father raised wars, Within the realm of France.

But yet before our comely king The English land forsook, Of Rosamund, his lady fair, His farewell thus he took:

'My Rosamund, my only rose, That pleaseth best mine eye: The fairest flower in all the world To feed my fantasy;