THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER

ANONYMOUS

On the banks of Allan Water, When the sweet spring time did fall, Was the miller's lovely daughter, Fairest of them all.

For his bride a soldier sought her, And a winning tongue had he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When brown autumn spread his store, There I saw the miller's daughter, But she smiled no more.

For the summer grief had brought her, And the soldier false was he, On the banks of Allan Water, None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water, When the winter snow fell fast, Still was seen the miller's daughter, Chilling blew the blast.

But the miller's lovely daughter, Both from cold and care was free, On the banks of Allan Water, There a corse lay she.

DEAR IS MY LITTLE NATIVE VALE

SAMUEL ROGERS

Dear is my little native vale, The ring-dove builds and murmurs there; Close by my cot she tells her tale To every pa.s.sing villager; The squirrel leaps from tree to tree, And sh.e.l.ls his nuts at liberty.

In orange-groves and myrtle-bowers, That breathe a gale of fragrance round, I charm the fairy-footed hours With my loved lute's romantic sound; Or crowns of living laurel weave For those that win the race at eve.

The shepherd's horn at break of day, The ballet danced in twilight glade, The canzonet and roundelay Sung in the silent greenwood shade: These simple joys, that never fail, Shall bind me to my native vale.

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

THE FAKENHAM GHOST

Robert Bloomfield

The lawns were dry in Euston park; (Here Truth inspires my tale) The lonely footpath, still and dark, Led over hill and dale.

Benighted was an ancient dame, And fearful haste she made To gain the vale of Fakenham And hail its willow shade.

Her footsteps knew no idle stops, But followed faster still, And echoed to the darksome copse That whispered on the hill;

Where clamorous rooks, yet scarcely hushed, Bespoke a peopled shade, And many a wing the foliage brushed, And hovering circuits made.

The dappled herd of grazing deer, That sought the shades by day, Now started from her path with fear, And gave the stranger way.

Darker it grew; and darker fears Came o'er her troubled mind-- When now a short quick step she hears Come patting close behind.

She turned; it stopped; nought could she see Upon the gloomy plain!

But as she strove the sprite to flee, She heard the same again.

Now terror seized her quaking frame, For, where the path was bare, The trotting Ghost kept on the same She muttered many a prayer.

Yet once again, amidst her fright, She tried what sight could do; When through the cheating glooms of night A monster stood in view.

Regardless of whate'er she felt, It followed down the plain!

She owned her sins, and down she knelt And said her prayers again.

Then on she sped; and hope grew strong, The white park gate in view; Which pushing hard, so long it swung That Ghost and all pa.s.sed through.

Loud fell the gate against the post!

Her heart-strings like to crack; For much she feared the grisly Ghost Would leap upon her back.

Still on, pat, pat, the goblin went, As it had done before; Her strength and resolution spent, She fainted at the door.

Out came her husband, much surprised, Out came her daughter dear; Good-natured souls! all unadvised Of what they had to fear.

The candle's gleam pierced through the night, Some short s.p.a.ce o'er the green; And there the little trotting sprite Distinctly might be seen.

An a.s.s's foal had lost its dam Within the s.p.a.cious park; And simple as the playful lamb Had followed in the dark.

No goblin he; no imp of sin; No crimes had ever known; They took the s.h.a.ggy stranger in, And reared him as their own.

His little hoofs would rattle round Upon the cottage floor; The matron learned to love the sound That frightened her before.

A favourite the Ghost became, And 'twas his fate to thrive; And long he lived and spread his fame, And kept the joke alive.

For many a laugh went through the vale; And some conviction too: Each thought some other goblin tale, Perhaps, was just as true.

THE KEEL ROW