The Hundred Best English Poems Part 15

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, John, There's neither cauld nor care, John, The day's aye fair In the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, John, She was baith gude and fair, John, And oh! we grudged her sair To the land o' the leal.

But sorrow's sel' wears past, John, And joy is comin' fast, John, The joy that's aye to last In the land o' the leal.

Sae dear's that joy was bought, John, Sae free the battle fought, John, That sinfu' man e'er brought To the land o' the leal.

Oh! dry your glist'ning e'e, John, My soul langs to be free, John, And angels beckon me To the land o' the leal.

Noo, haud ye leal and true, John, Your day it's weel near through, John, And I'll welcome you To the land o' the leal.

Noo, fare-ye-weel, my ain John, This warld's cares are vain, John, We'll meet, and we'll be fain, In the land o' the leal.

_Henderson's Text._

ALEXANDER POPE.

55. _Ode on Solitude._

Happy the man, whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air, In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire.

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day.

Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Together mix'd; sweet recreation; And innocence, which most does please With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown, Thus unlamented let me die, Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie.

_1735 Edition._

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

56. _The Night before his Death._

Even such is time, that takes on trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with age and dust; Who in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days!

But from this earth, this grave, this dust, The Lord shall raise me up, I trust!

_1829 Edition._

SAMUEL ROGERS.

57. _A Wish._

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, With many a fall shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet-gown and ap.r.o.n blue.

The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heaven.

_1846 Edition._

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

58. _Sonnets._

XVII.

Who will believe my verse in time to come, If it were fill'd with your most high deserts?

Though yet, heaven knows, it is but as a tomb Which hides your life and shows not half your parts.

If I could write the beauty of your eyes And in fresh numbers number all your graces, The age to come would say 'This poet lies; Such heavenly touches ne'er touch'd earthly faces.'

So should my papers, yellowed with their age, Be scorn'd, like old men of less truth than tongue, And your true rights be term'd a poet's rage And stretched metre of an antique song: But were some child of yours alive that time, You should live twice, in it and in my rhyme.

59. XVIII.

Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st: So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

60. x.x.x.