Fast they come, fast they come,
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Knell for the onset!

THE CRICKET ON THE HEARTH.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF BÉRANGER. ANONYMOUS.

IN the evening, I sit near my poker and tongs, And I dream in the firelight's glow,

And sometimes I quaver forgotten old songs That I listened to long ago.

Then out of the cinders there cometh a chirp

Like an echoing, answering cry, —

Little we care for the outside world,

My friend the cricket, and I.

For

my cricket has learnt, I am sure of it quite, That this earth is a silly, strange place,

And perhaps he's been beaten and hurt in the fight,
And perhaps he's been passed in the race.
But I know he has found it far better to sing
Than to talk of ill luck and to sigh,-
Little we care for the outside world,
My friend the cricket, and I.

Perhaps he has loved, and perhaps he has lost,
And perhaps he is weary and weak,
And tired of life's torrent, so turbid and tost,
And disposed to be mournful and meek.
Yet still I believe that he thinks it is best
To sing, and let troubles float by,
Little we care for the outside world,
My friend the cricket, and I.

SONG: ON MAY MORNING.

JOHN MILTON.

Now the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her
The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth, and youth, and warm desire!
Woods and groves are of thy dressing,
Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing.
Thus we salute thee with our early song,
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

TURN, FORTUNE, TURN THY WHEEL!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

TURN, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud; Turn thy wild wheel through sunshine, storm and cloud! Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel with smile or frown;
With that wild wheel we go not up or down;
Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

Smile and we smile, the lords of many lands;
Frown, and we smile, the lords of our own hands;
For man is man, and master of his fate.

Turn, turn thy wheel above the staring crowd!
Thy wheel and thou are shadows in the cloud,
Thy wheel and thee we neither love nor hate.

TO MISTRESS MARGARET HUSSEY.

JOHN SKELTON.

MERRY Margaret

As midsummer flower

Gentle as falcon,

Or hawk of the tower;
With solace and gladness,
Much mirth and no madness,
All good and no badness;

So joyously,

So maidenly,

So womanly

Her demeaning, -
In everything
Far, far passing
That I can indite,
Or suffice to write,
Of merry Margaret,
As midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower;
As patient and as still,
And as full of good-will,
As fair Isiphil,
Coliander,

Sweet Pomander,

Good Cassander;

Steadfast of thought,

Well made, well wrought;

Far may be sought

Ere

you can find

So courteous, so kind,

As merry Margaret,

This midsummer flower

Gentle as falcon

Or hawk of the tower.