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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
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.”
“ Canst 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.
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.
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 ;
Ye ken when folks are paired, Birdie ! ye ken when
folks are paired,
Life's fair, an' foul, and freakish weather,
An' light an' lumbring loads, thegither
Maun a' be shared ;
An' shared wi’ looin' hearts, Birdie ! wi' looin' hearts
Fu' fashious loads may weel be borne ;
An' roughest roads to velvet turn,
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
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 wil the auld weird wife,
Flood, fell, an' fen.
An' ae thing weel I wot, Birdie! an' ae thing weel
There 's ane abune the highest sphere
Wha cares for a' his creatures here,
Marks every lot;
Wha guards the crowned king, Birdie ! wha guards
the crowned king,
An' taketh heed for sic as me, -
Sae little worth, - an' e'en for thee,
Puir witless thing!
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 ;
'T is filled wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self 's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing ;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plough ;
Farmer he, and landlord thou !
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy ;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire ;
Phæbus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou
Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou 'st drunk, and danced, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
FROM THE GERMAN OF VHLAND.
“ Hast thou seen that lordly castle,
That castle by the sea ?
Golden and red above it
The clouds float gorgeously.