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Fair Annie

'It's narrow, narrow, make your bed,
And learn to lie your lane:
For I'm ga'n oer the sea, Fair Annie,
A braw bride to bring hame.
Wi her I will get gowd and gear;
Wi you I neer got nane.

'But wha will bake my bridal bread,
Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my brisk bride,
That I bring oer the dale?'

'It's I will bake your bridal bread,
And brew your bridal ale,
And I will welcome your brisk bride,
That you bring oer the dale.'

'But she that welcomes my brisk bride
Maun gang like maiden fair;
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,
And braid her yellow hair.'

'But how can I gang maiden-like,
When maiden I am nane?
Have I not born seven sons to thee,
And am with child again?'

She's taen her young son in her arms,
Another in her hand,
And she's up to the highest tower,
To see him come to land.

'Come up, come up, my eldest son,
And look oer yon sea-strand,
And see your father's new-come bride,
Before she come to land.'

'Come down, come down, my mother dear,
Come frae the castle wa!
I fear, if langer ye stand there,
Ye'll let yoursell down fa.'

And she gaed down, and farther down,
Her love's ship for to see,
And the topmast and the mainmast
Shone like the silver free.

And she's gane down, and farther down,
The bride's ship to behold,
And the topmast and the mainmast

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poem by Andrew Lang
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Enoch Arden

Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
And in the chasm are foam and yellow sands;
Beyond, red roofs about a narrow wharf
In cluster; then a moulder'd church; and higher
A long street climbs to one tall-tower'd mill;
And high in heaven behind it a gray down
With Danish barrows; and a hazelwood,
By autumn nutters haunted, flourishes
Green in a cuplike hollow of the down.

Here on this beach a hundred years ago,
Three children of three houses, Annie Lee,
The prettiest little damsel in the port,
And Philip Ray the miller's only son,
And Enoch Arden, a rough sailor's lad
Made orphan by a winter shipwreck, play'd
Among the waste and lumber of the shore,
Hard coils of cordage, swarthy fishing-nets,
Anchors of rusty fluke, and boats updrawn,
And built their castles of dissolving sand
To watch them overflow'd, or following up
And flying the white breaker, daily left
The little footprint daily wash'd away.

A narrow cave ran in beneath the cliff:
In this the children play'd at keeping house.
Enoch was host one day, Philip the next,
While Annie still was mistress; but at times
Enoch would hold possession for a week:
`This is my house and this my little wife.'
`Mine too' said Philip `turn and turn about:'
When, if they quarrell'd, Enoch stronger-made
Was master: then would Philip, his blue eyes
All flooded with the helpless wrath of tears,
Shriek out `I hate you, Enoch,' and at this
The little wife would weep for company,
And pray them not to quarrel for her sake,
And say she would be little wife to both.

But when the dawn of rosy childhood past,
And the new warmth of life's ascending sun
Was felt by either, either fixt his heart
On that one girl; and Enoch spoke his love,
But Philip loved in silence; and the girl
Seem'd kinder unto Philip than to him;
But she loved Enoch; tho' she knew it not,
And would if ask'd deny it. Enoch set
A purpose evermore before his eyes,
To hoard all savings to the uttermost,
To purchase his own boat, and make a home

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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La Copa De La Vida/the Cup Of Life

Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Go, go, go (go, go, go)
Ale, ale, ale (ale, ale, ale)
Go (go)
Go (go)
Go (go)
Go (go)
Here we go!
The cup of life,
This is the one.
Now is the time,
Don't ever stop.
Push it along,
Gotta be strong,
Push it along,
Right to the top.
Como cain y abel
Es un partido cruel
Tienes que pelear por una estrella
Consigue con honor
La copa del amor
Para sobrevivir y luchar por ella
Luchar por ella (yeah!)
Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Here we go!! ale, ale, ale
Go, go, goal!! ale, ale, ale
Arriba va!! el mundo esta de pie
Go, go, gol!! ale, ale, ale
La vida es
Competicion
Hay que soar
Ser campeon
La copa es
La bendicion
La ganaras
Go go go
And when you feel the heat,
The world is at your feet.
No one can hold you down
If you really want it!
Just steal your destiny
Right from the hands of fate.
Reach for the cup of life
'cause your name is on it!
Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Do you really want it? (yeah!)
Tu y yo, ale, ale, ale!
Go, go, gol! ale, ale, ale!

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song performed by Ricky Martin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Anything You Can Do

ANNIE: Anything you can do I can do better
......I can do anything better than you
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can, yes, I can
FRANK: Anything you can be I can be greater
......Sooner or later I'm greater than you
ANNIE: No, you're not
FRANK: Yes, I am
ANNIE: No, you're not
FRANK: Yes, I am
ANNIE: No, you're not
FRANK: Yes, I am, yes I am
FRANK: I can shoot a partridge with a single cartridge
ANNIE: I can get a sparrow with a bow and arrow
FRANK: I can live on bread and cheese
ANNIE: And only on that?
FRANK: Yes
ANNIE: So can a rat
FRANK: Any note you can reach I can go higher
ANNIE: I can sing anything higher than you
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
ANNIE: Anything you can buy I can buy cheaper
......I can buy anything cheaper than you
FRANK: Fifty cents
ANNIE: Forty cents
FRANK: Thirty cents
ANNIE: Twenty cents
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can, yes, I can
FRANK: Anything you can say I can say softer
ANNIE: I can say anything softer than you
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can
FRANK: No, you can't
ANNIE: Yes, I can, yes, I can

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song performed by Irving Berlin
Added by Lucian Velea
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Fair Annie

THE reivers they stole Fair Annie,
   As she walk'd by the sea;
But a noble knight was her ransom soon,
   Wi' gowd and white monie.

She bided in strangers' land wi' him,
   And none knew whence she cam;
She lived in the castle wi' her love,
   But never told her name.

'It 's narrow, narrow, mak your bed,
   And learn to lie your lane;
For I'm gaun owre the sea, Fair Annie,
   A braw Bride to bring hame.
Wi' her I will get gowd and gear,
   Wi' you I ne'er gat nane.

'But wha will bake my bridal bread,
   Or brew my bridal ale?
And wha will welcome my bright Bride,
   That I bring owre the dale?'

It 's I will bake your bridal bread,
   And brew your bridal ale;
And I will welcome your bright Bride,
   That you bring owre the dale.'

'But she that welcomes my bright Bride
   Maun gang like maiden fair;
She maun lace on her robe sae jimp,
   And comely braid her hair.

'Bind up, bind up your yellow hair,
   And tie it on your neck;
And see you look as maiden-like
   As the day that first we met.'

'O how can I gang maiden-like,
   When maiden I am nane?
Have I not borne six sons to thee,
   And am wi' child again?'

'I'll put cooks into my kitchen,
   And stewards in my hall,
And I'll have bakers for my bread,
   And brewers for my ale;
But you're to welcome my bright Bride,
   That I bring owre the dale.'

Three months and a day were gane and past,

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poem by Anonymous
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The Lass of Lochroyan

'O WHA will shoe my bonny foot?
   And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will bind my middle jimp
   Wi' a lang, lang linen band?

'O wha will kame my yellow hair,
   With a haw bayberry kame?
And wha will be my babe's father
   Till Gregory come hame?'

'They father, he will shoe thy foot,
   Thy brother will glove thy hand,
Thy mither will bind thy middle jimp
   Wi' a lang, lang linen band.

'Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,
   Wi' a haw bayberry kame;
The Almighty will be thy babe's father
   Till Gregory come hame.'

'And wha will build a bonny ship,
   And set it on the sea?
For I will go to seek my love,
   My ain love Gregory.'

Up then spak her father dear,
   A wafu' man was he;
'And I will build a bonny ship,
   And set her on the sea.

'And I will build a bonny ship,
   And set her on the sea,
And ye sal gae and seek your love,
   Your ain love Gregory.'

Then he 's gart build a bonny ship,
   And set it on the sea,
Wi' four-and-twenty mariners,
   To bear her company.

O he 's gart build a bonny ship,
   To sail on the salt sea;
The mast was o' the beaten gold,
   The sails o' cramoisie.

The sides were o' the gude stout aik,
   The deck o' mountain pine,
The anchor o' the silver shene,
   The ropes o' silken twine.

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poem by Anonymous
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Love Gregor; Or, The Lass Of Lochroyan

'O wha will shoe my fu' fair foot?
And wha will glove my hand?
And wha will lace my middle jimp,
Wi' the new-made London band?

'And wha will kaim my yellow hair,
Wi' the new made silver kaim?
And wha will father my young son,
Till Love Gregor come hame?'

'Your father will shoe your fu' fair foot,
Your mother will glove your hand;
Your sister will lace your middle jimp
Wi' the new-made London band.

'Your brother will kaim your yellow hair,
Wi' the new made silver kaim;
And the king of heaven will father your bairn,
Till Love Gregor come haim.'

'But I will get a bonny boat,
And I will sail the sea,
For I maun gang to Love Gregor,
Since he canno come hame to me.'

O she has gotten a bonny boat,
And sailld the sa't sea fame;
She langd to see her ain true-love,
Since he could no come hame.

'O row your boat, my mariners,
And bring me to the land,
For yonder I see my love's castle,
Close by the sa't sea strand.'

She has ta'en her young son in her arms,
And to the door she's gone,
And lang she's knocked and sair she ca'd,
But answer got she none.

'O open the door, Love Gregor,' she says,
'O open, and let me in;
For the wind blaws thro' my yellow hair,
And the rain draps o'er my chin.'

'Awa, awa, ye ill woman,
You'r nae come here for good;
You'r but some witch, or wile warlock,
Or mer-maid of the flood.'

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poem by Andrew Lang
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The Shepherds Calendar - July

Daughter of pastoral smells and sights
And sultry days and dewy nights
July resumes her yearly place
Wi her milking maiden face
Ruddy and tand yet sweet to view
When everywhere's a vale of dew
And raps it round her looks that smiles
A lovly rest to daily toils
Wi last months closing scenes and dins
Her sultry beaming birth begins

Hay makers still in grounds appear
And some are thinning nearly clear
Save oddly lingering shocks about
Which the tithman counteth out
Sticking their green boughs where they go
The parsons yearly claims to know
Which farmers view wi grudging eye
And grumbling drive their waggons bye
In hedge bound close and meadow plains
Stript groups of busy bustling swains
From all her hants wi noises rude
Drives to the wood lands solitude
That seeks a spot unmarkd wi paths
Far from the close and meadow swaths
Wi smutty song and story gay
They cart the witherd smelling hay
Boys loading on the waggon stand
And men below wi sturdy hand
Heave up the shocks on lathy prong
While horse boys lead the team along
And maidens drag the rake behind
Wi light dress shaping to the wind
And trembling locks of curly hair
And snow white bosoms nearly bare
That charms ones sight amid the hay
Like lingering blossoms of the may
From clowns rude jokes they often turn
And oft their cheeks wi blushes burn
From talk which to escape a sneer
They oft affect as not to hear
Some in the nooks about the ground
Pile up the stacks swelld bellying round
The milking cattles winter fare
That in the snow are fodderd there
Warm spots wi black thorn thickets lind
And trees to brake the northern wind
While masters oft the sultry hours
Will urge their speed and talk of showers
When boy from home trotts to the stack

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poem by John Clare
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Annie Mae

Written by natalie cole
(hoo, hoo, hoo) mmm (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Growing up wasnt easy for annie mae
(hoo, hoo, hoo)
A little girl in a great big world
Annie mae (hoo, hoo, hoo)
No one knew about her past
Some people swore shed never last
She was (growing up much too fast)
Growing (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Just a little too fast (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Never had her a mama, no, no
Annie mae (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Rarely heard a kind spoken word
Annie mae (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Looking at life through an empty shell
And all the time shes catching hell
She was growing
(growing up much too fast) up much too fast
Does anybody know where is annie mae today
Where oh where is annie mae
All you got to do is look into the faces of
All the young girls
On the avenue--(young girls!)
Oh, well, (hoo, hoo, hoo) ha
In the night hear her cry, annie mae (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Hurt and pain keeps coming again
And again, and again, annie mae (hoo, hoo, hoo)
Trippin and runnin is blowin her mind
Tryin to decide if shell make it this time
She was (growing up) oh, yeah (much too fast)
She was (growing up much too fast)
Somebody got to stop her, oh annie, annie
(ooh) (hoo, hoo, hoo) (where is annie mae)
Annie, annie
Somebody
(ooh) (hoo, hoo, hoo) (where is annie mae)
Got to stop her, oh, annie, annie,
(ooh) (hoo, hoo, hoo) (where is annie mae)
Annie, annie
Shes runnin, shes runnin
Growin up too fast, oh, oh
(shes running) oh, oh
Growin up too fast, oh, oh
(shes runnin) oh, oh
Growin up too fast, oh, hey
(shes runnin) annie, annie mae, yeah
(shes running) where you goin annie
(shes runnin) dont you think somebody aught to stop you
(shes runnin) somebody aught to stop you

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song performed by Natalie Cole
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Brus Book I

This book the true story of King Robert and Sir James Douglas

Storys to rede ar delatibill
Suppos that thai be nocht bot fabill,
Than suld storys that suthfast wer
And thai war said on gud maner
5 Have doubill plesance in heryng.
The first plesance is the carpyng,
And the tother the suthfastnes
That schawys the thing rycht as it wes,
And suth thyngis that ar likand
10 Till mannys heryng ar plesand.
Tharfor I wald fayne set my will
Giff my wyt mycht suffice thartill
To put in wryt a suthfast story
That it lest ay furth in memory
15 Swa that na tyme of lenth it let
Na ger it haly be foryet.
For auld storys that men redys
Representis to thaim the dedys
Of stalwart folk that lyvyt ar
20 Rycht as thai than in presence war.
And certis thai suld weill have prys
That in thar tyme war wycht and wys
And led thar lyff in gret travaill,
And oft in hard stour off bataill
25 Wan gret price off chevalry
And war voydyt off cowardy,
As wes King Robert off Scotland
That hardy wes off hart and hand,
And gud Schir James off Douglas
30 That in his tyme sa worthy was
That off hys price and hys bounte
In ser landis renownyt wes he.
Off thaim I thynk this buk to ma,
Now God gyff grace that I may swa
35 Tret it and bryng till endyng
That I say nocht bot suthfast thing.

[Alexander III's death; the dispute over the succession
submitted to Edward I's arbitration]

Quhen Alexander the king wes deid
That Scotland haid to steyr and leid,
The land sex yer and mayr perfay
40 Lay desolat eftyr hys day
Till that the barnage at the last
Assemblyt thaim and fayndyt fast
To cheys a king thar land to ster

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poem by John Barbour
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The Brus Book XIII

[Douglas's division attacks]

Quhen thir twa fyrst bataillis wer
Assemblyt as I said you er,
The Stewart Walter that than was
And the gud lord als of Douglas
5 In a bataill, quhen that thai saw
The erle foroutyn dred or aw
Assembill with his cumpany
On all that folk sa sturdely
For till help him thai held thar way
10 And thar bataill in gud aray,
And assemblyt sa hardely
Besid the erle a litill by
That thar fayis feld thar cummyn wele,
For with wapynnys stalwart of stele
15 Thai dang apon with all thar mycht.
Thar fayis resavyt weile Ik hycht
With swerdis speris and with mase,
The bataill thar sa feloune was
And sua rycht gret spilling of blud
20 That on the erd the flousis stud.
The Scottismen sa weill thaim bar
And sua gret slauchter maid thai thar
And fra sa fele the lyvis revyt
That all the feld bludy wes levyt.
25 That tyme thar thre bataillis wer
All syd be sid fechtand weill ner,
Thar mycht men her mony dynt
And wapynnys apon armuris stynt,
And se tumble knychtis and stedis
30 And mony rich and reale wedis
Defoullyt foully under fete,
Sum held on loft sum tynt the suet.
A lang quhill thus fechtand thai war
That men na noyis mycht her thar,
35 Men hard nocht bot granys and dintis
That slew fyr as men slayis on flyntis,
Thai faucht ilk ane sa egerly
That thai maid nother moyis na cry
Bot dang on other at thar mycht
40 With wapnys that war burnyst brycht.
The arowys als sua thyk thar flaw
That thai mycht say wele that thaim saw
That thai a hidwys schour gan ma,
For quhar thai fell Ik undreta
45 Thai left efter thaim taknyng
That sall ned as I trow leching.

[Sir Robert Keith's cavalry disperses the English archers]

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poem by John Barbour
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Allegany Camp

amazing grace circus camp
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amc camp dodge
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amelia earhart in japanese war camp

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Annie Marshall the Foundling

Annie Marshall was a foundling, and lived in Downderry,
And was trained up by a coast-guardsman, kind-hearted and merry
And he loved Annie Marshall as dear as his life,
And he resolved to make her his own loving wife.

The night was tempestuous, most terrific, and pitch dark,
When Matthew Pengelly rescued Annie Marshall from an ill-fated barque,
But her parents were engulfed in the briny deep,
Which caused poor Annie at times to sigh and weep.

One day Matthew asked Annie if she would be his wife,
And Annie replied, I never thought of it in all my life;
Yes, my wife, Annie, replied Matthew, hold hard a bit,
Remember, Annie, I've watched you grow up, and consider you most fit.

Poor Annie did not speak, she remained quite mute,
And with agitation she trembled from head to foot,
The poor girl was in a dilemma, she knew not what to say,
And owing to Matthew training her, she couldn't say him nay.

Oh! Matthew, I'm afraid I would not make you a good wife,
And in that respect there would be too much strife,
And the thought thereof, believe me, makes me feel ill,
Because I'm unfit to be thy wife, Matthew, faltered the poor girl.

Time will prove that, dear Annie, but why are you so calm?
Then Annie put her hand shyly into Matthew's brown palm
Just then the flashing lightning played upon Annie's face,
And the loud thunder drowned Matthew's words as Annie left the place.

But Matthew looked after her as she went home straightway,
And his old heart felt light and gay,
As he looked forward for his coming marriage day,
Because he knew that Annie Marshall couldn't say him nay.

Then the sky drew dark, and the sea lashed itself into foam,
But he heeded it not as he sat there alone,
Till the sound of a gun came booming o'er the sea,
Then Matthew had to attend to his duty immediately.

A ship, he muttered, Lord, help them! and coming right in by the sound,
And in a few minutes she will run aground.
And the vessel was dashed against the rocks with her helpless crew,
Then in hot haste for assistance Matthew instantly flew.

Then Matthew returned with a few men all willing to lend their aid,
But amongst them all Matthew seemed the least afraid;
Then an old man cried, Save my boy, for his mother's sake,
Oh! Matthew, try and save him, or my heart will break!

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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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Lord Thomas And Fair Annet

Lord Thomas and Fair Annet
Sate a' day on a hill;
Whan night was cum, and sun was sett,
They had not talkt their fill.

Lord Thomas said a word in jest,
Fair Annet took it ill:
'A, I will nevir wed a wife
Against my ain friend's will.'

'Gif ye wull nevir wed a wife,
A wife wull neir wed yee;'
Sae he is hame to tell his mither,
And knelt upon his knee.

'O rede, O rede, mither,' he says,
'A gude rede gie to mee;
O sall I tak the nut-browne bride,
And let Faire Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride haes gowd and gear,
Fair Annet she has gat nane;
And the little beauty Fair Annet haes
O it wull soon be gane.'

And he has till his brother gane:
'Now, brother, rede ye mee;
A, sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And let Fair Annet bee?'

'The nut-browne bride has oxen, brother,
The nut-browne bride has kye;
I wad hae ye marrie the nut-browne bride,
And cast Fair Annet bye.'

'Her oxen may dye i' the house, billie,
And her kye into the byre;
And I sall hae nothing to mysell
Bot a fat fadge by the fyre.'

And he has till his sister gane:
'Now, sister, rede ye mee;
O sall I marrie the nut-browne bride,
And set Fair Annet free?'

'I'se rede ye tak Fair Annet, Thomas,
And let the browne bride alane;
Lest ye sould sigh, and say, Alace,
What is this we brought hame!'

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poem by Andrew Lang
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The Ballad of the White Horse

DEDICATION

Of great limbs gone to chaos,
A great face turned to night--
Why bend above a shapeless shroud
Seeking in such archaic cloud
Sight of strong lords and light?

Where seven sunken Englands
Lie buried one by one,
Why should one idle spade, I wonder,
Shake up the dust of thanes like thunder
To smoke and choke the sun?

In cloud of clay so cast to heaven
What shape shall man discern?
These lords may light the mystery
Of mastery or victory,
And these ride high in history,
But these shall not return.

Gored on the Norman gonfalon
The Golden Dragon died:
We shall not wake with ballad strings
The good time of the smaller things,
We shall not see the holy kings
Ride down by Severn side.

Stiff, strange, and quaintly coloured
As the broidery of Bayeux
The England of that dawn remains,
And this of Alfred and the Danes
Seems like the tales a whole tribe feigns
Too English to be true.

Of a good king on an island
That ruled once on a time;
And as he walked by an apple tree
There came green devils out of the sea
With sea-plants trailing heavily
And tracks of opal slime.

Yet Alfred is no fairy tale;
His days as our days ran,
He also looked forth for an hour
On peopled plains and skies that lower,
From those few windows in the tower
That is the head of a man.

But who shall look from Alfred's hood

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poem by Gilbert Keith Chesterton
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Handles Bermuda

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Brus Book XVIII

Only Berwick remains in English hands; a burgess offers to betray it]

The lordis off the land war fayne
Quhen thai wist he wes cummyn agan
And till him went in full gret hy,
And he ressavit thaim hamlyly
5 And maid thaim fest and glaidsum cher,
And thai sa wonderly blyth wer
Off his come that na man mycht say,
Gret fest and fayr till him maid thai.
Quharever he raid all the countre
10 Gaderyt in daynte him to se,
Gret glaidschip than wes in the land.
All than wes wonnyn till his hand,
Fra the Red Swyre to Orknay
Wes nocht off Scotland fra his fay
15 Outakyn Berwik it allane.
That tym tharin wonnyt ane
That capitane wes of the toun,
All Scottismen in suspicioun
He had and tretyt thaim tycht ill.
20 He had ay to thaim hevy will
And held thaim fast at undre ay,
Quhill that it fell apon a day
That a burges Syme of Spalding
Thocht that it wes rycht angry thing
25 Suagate ay to rebutyt be.
Tharfor intill his hart thocht he
That he wald slely mak covyne
With the marchall, quhays cosyne
He had weddyt till him wiff,
30 And as he thocht he did belyff.
Lettrys till him he send in hy
With a traist man all prively,
And set him tym to cum a nycht
With leddrys and with gud men wicht
35 Till the kow yet all prively,
And bad him hald his trist trewly
And he suld mete thaim at the wall,
For his walk thar that nycht suld fall.

[The marischal shows the letter to the king,
who seeks to avoid jealousy between Douglas and Moray]

Quhen the marchell the lettre saw
40 He umbethocht him than a thraw,
For he wist be himselvyn he
Mycht nocht off mycht no power be
For till escheyff sa gret a thing,
And giff he tuk till his helping

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poem by John Barbour
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Luggage Canada

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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May

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather cock
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And cock his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy
A happy dirty driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight

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poem by John Clare
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The Shepherds Calendar - May

Come queen of months in company
Wi all thy merry minstrelsy
The restless cuckoo absent long
And twittering swallows chimney song
And hedge row crickets notes that run
From every bank that fronts the sun
And swathy bees about the grass
That stops wi every bloom they pass
And every minute every hour
Keep teazing weeds that wear a flower
And toil and childhoods humming joys
For there is music in the noise
The village childern mad for sport
In school times leisure ever short
That crick and catch the bouncing ball
And run along the church yard wall
Capt wi rude figured slabs whose claims
In times bad memory hath no names
Oft racing round the nookey church
Or calling ecchos in the porch
And jilting oer the weather cock
Viewing wi jealous eyes the clock
Oft leaping grave stones leaning hights
Uncheckt wi mellancholy sights
The green grass swelld in many a heap
Where kin and friends and parents sleep
Unthinking in their jovial cry
That time shall come when they shall lye
As lowly and as still as they
While other boys above them play
Heedless as they do now to know
The unconcious dust that lies below
The shepherd goes wi happy stride
Wi moms long shadow by his side
Down the dryd lanes neath blooming may
That once was over shoes in clay
While martins twitter neath his eves
Which he at early morning leaves
The driving boy beside his team
Will oer the may month beauty dream
And cock his hat and turn his eye
On flower and tree and deepning skye
And oft bursts loud in fits of song
And whistles as he reels along
Crack[ing] his whip in starts of joy
A happy dirty driving boy
The youth who leaves his corner stool
Betimes for neighbouring village school
While as a mark to urge him right
The church spires all the way in sight

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poem by John Clare
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Beowulf

LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings won!
Oft Scyld the Scefing from squadroned foes,
from many a tribe, the mead-bench tore,
awing the earls. Since erst he lay
friendless, a foundling, fate repaid him:
for he waxed under welkin, in wealth he throve,
till before him the folk, both far and near,
who house by the whale-path, heard his mandate,
gave him gifts: a good king he!
To him an heir was afterward born,
a son in his halls, whom heaven sent
to favor the folk, feeling their woe
that erst they had lacked an earl for leader
so long a while; the Lord endowed him,
the Wielder of Wonder, with world's renown.
Famed was this Beowulf: far flew the boast of him,
son of Scyld, in the Scandian lands.
So becomes it a youth to quit him well
with his father's friends, by fee and gift,
that to aid him, aged, in after days,
come warriors willing, should war draw nigh,
liegemen loyal: by lauded deeds
shall an earl have honor in every clan.
Forth he fared at the fated moment,
sturdy Scyld to the shelter of God.
Then they bore him over to ocean's billow,
loving clansmen, as late he charged them,
while wielded words the winsome Scyld,
the leader beloved who long had ruled….
In the roadstead rocked a ring-dight vessel,
ice-flecked, outbound, atheling's barge:
there laid they down their darling lord
on the breast of the boat, the breaker-of-rings,
by the mast the mighty one. Many a treasure
fetched from far was freighted with him.
No ship have I known so nobly dight
with weapons of war and weeds of battle,
with breastplate and blade: on his bosom lay
a heaped hoard that hence should go
far o'er the flood with him floating away.
No less these loaded the lordly gifts,
thanes' huge treasure, than those had done
who in former time forth had sent him
sole on the seas, a suckling child.
High o'er his head they hoist the standard,
a gold-wove banner; let billows take him,
gave him to ocean. Grave were their spirits,
mournful their mood. No man is able

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poem by Charles Baudelaire
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