The Children's Garland from the Best Poets Part 5

_Old Ballad_

XX

_JOHN BARLEYCORN_

There was three kings into the East, Three kings both great and high, And they hae sworn a solemn oath John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and ploughed him down, Put clods upon his head, And they hae sworn a solemn oath, John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on, And showers began to fall; John Barleycorn got up again, And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came, And he grew thick and strong, His head well armed wi' pointed spears, That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild, When he grew wan and pale; His bending joints and drooping head Show'd he began to fall.

His colour sickened more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon long and sharp, And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart, Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back, And cudgell'd him full sore; They hung him up before the storm, And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit With water to the brim, They heaved in John Barleycorn, There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor, To work him further woe, And still, as signs of life appear'd, They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, The marrow of his bones; But a miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood, And drank it round and round; And still the more and more they drank, Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold, Of n.o.ble enterprise; For if you do but taste his blood, 'Twill make your courage rise.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, Each man a gla.s.s in hand; And may his great posterity Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

_Old Ballad_

XXI

_MARY-ANN'S CHILD_

Mary-Ann was alone with her baby in arms, In her house with the trees overhead, For her husband was out in the night and the storms, In his business a-toiling for bread; And she, as the wind in the elm-heads did roar, Did grieve to think he was all night out of door.

And her kinsfolk and neighbours did say of her child (Under the lofty elm-tree), That a prettier never did babble and smile Up a-top of a proud mother's knee; And his mother did toss him, and kiss him, and call Him her darling, and life, and her hope and her all.

But she found in the evening the child was not well (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she felt she could give all the world for to tell Of a truth what his ailing could be; And she thought on him last in her prayers at night, And she look'd at him last as she put out the light.

And she found him grow worse in the dead of the night (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And she press'd him against her warm bosom so tight, And she rock'd him so sorrowfully; And there, in his anguish, a-nestling he lay, Till his struggles grew weak, and his cries died away.

And the moon was a-shining down into the place (Under the gloomy elm-tree), And his mother could see that his lips and his face Were as white as clean ashes could be; And her tongue was a-tied, and her still heart did swell Till her senses came back with the first tear that fell.

Never more can she feel his warm face in her breast (Under the leafy elm-tree), For his eyes are a-shut, and his hands are at rest, And he's now from his pain a-set free; For his soul we do know is to heaven a-fled, Where no pain is a-known, and no tears are a-shed.

_W. Barnes_

XXII

_THE USEFUL PLOUGH_

A country life is sweet!

In moderate cold and heat, To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair, In every field of wheat, The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow; So that I say, no courtier may Compare with them who clothe in grey, And follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark, And labour till almost dark; Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep; While every pleasant park Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing, On each green, tender bough.

With what content and merriment, Their days are spent, whose minds are bent To follow the useful plough!

_Old Song_

XXIII

_A WREN'S NEST_

Among the dwellings framed by birds In field or forest with nice care, Is none that with the little wren's In snugness may compare.

No door the tenement requires, And seldom needs a laboured roof; Yet is it to the fiercest sun Impervious, and storm-proof.

So warm, so beautiful withal, In perfect fitness for its aim, That to the Kind, by special grace, Their instinct surely came.

And when for their abodes they seek An opportune recess, The hermit has no finer eye For shadowy quietness.

These find, 'mid ivied abbey walls, A canopy in some still nook; Others are pent-housed by a brae That overhangs a brook.

There to the brooding bird her mate Warbles by fits his low clear song; And by the busy streamlet both Are sung to all day long.

Or in sequestered lanes they build, Where, till the flitting bird's return, Her eggs within the nest repose, Like relics in an urn.