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"THE MIDGES DANCE ABOON THE BURN"

THE midges dance aboon the burn;

The dews begin to fa';

The paitricks doun the rushy holm

Set up their e'ening ca'.

Now loud and clear the blackbird's sang

Rings through the briery shaw,
While, flitting gay, the swallows play

Around the castle wa'.

Beneath the golden gloamin' sky

The mavis mends her lay;

The redbreast pours his sweetest strains
To charm the lingering day;
While weary yeldrins seem to wail
Their little nestlings torn,

The merry wren, frae den to den,
Gaes jinking through the thorn.

The roses fauld their silken leaves,
The foxglove shuts its bell;
The honeysuckle and the birk

Spread fragrance through the dell.

Let others crowd the giddy court

Of mirth and revelry,

The simple joys that Nature yields

Are dearer far to me.

Robert Tannahill [1774-1810]

THE PLOW

ABOVE YOn somber swell of land

Thou seest the dawn's grave orange hue,

With one pale streak like yellow sand,

And over that a vein of blue.

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The air is cold abovat, meaning
Äll silent is the earth and

Except with his own lonely ods

The blackbird holds a colloquy.

"To One Long in City Pent" 1607

Over the broad hill creeps a beam,

Like hope that gilds a good man's brow; And now ascends the nostril-steam

Of stalwart horses come to plow.

Ye rigid plowmen, bear in mind

Your labor is for future hours!

Advance spare not-nor look behind

Plow deep and straight with all your powers.
Richard Hengist Horne [1803-1884]

THE USEFUL PLOW

A COUNTRY life is sweet!

In moderate cold and heat,

To walk in the air how pleasant and fair! In every field of wheat,

The fairest of flowers adorning the bowers, And every meadow's brow;

So that I say, no courtier may

Compare with them who clothe in gray,

And follow the useful plow.

They rise with the morning lark,

And labor till almost dark,

Then, folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep

While every pleasant park

Next morning is ringing with birds that are singing

On each green, tender bough.

With what content and merriment

Their days are spent, whose minds are bent

To follow the useful plow.

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Who is more happy, when, with heart's content,
Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair
And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
Catching the notes of Philomel,—and eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career,
He mourns that day so soon has glided by,
E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

John Keats [1795-1821)

THE QUIET LIFE

WHAT pleasure have great princes
More dainty to their choice.

Than herdsmen wild, who careless
In quiet life rejoice,

And fortune's fate not fearing

Sing sweet in summer morning?

Their dealings plain and rightful,
Are void of all deceit;

They never know how spiteful
It is to kneel and wait

On favorite, presumptuous,

Whose pride is vain and sumptuous.

All day their flocks each tendeth;
At night, they take their rest;
More quiet than who sendeth

His ship unto the East,

Where gold and pearl are plenty;

But getting, very dainty.

For lawyers and their pleading,
They 'steem it not a straw

They spend no money Vaily.

The Wish

O happy who thus liveth!
Not caring much for gold;
With clothing which sufficeth
To keep him from the cold.
Though poor and plain his diet

Yet merry it is, and quiet.

1609

William Byrd [1538?-1623]

THE WISH

WELL then, I now do plainly see

This busy world and I shall ne'er agree;
The very honey of all earthly joy
Does, of all meats, the soonest cloy;

And they, methinks, deserve my pity
Who for it can endure the stings,
The crowd, and buzz, and murmurings
Of this great hive, the city!

Ah, yet, ere I descend to the grave,

May I a small house and large garden have;
And a few friends, and many books, both true,
Both wise, and both delightful too!

And since Love ne'er will from me flee,

A mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian-angels are,

Only beloved, and loving me!

O fountains! when in you shall I

Myself eased of unpeaceful thoughts espy?

O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made

The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood!

Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,

Where all the riches lie, that she

Has coined and stamped for good.

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The gods, when they descended, hither From heaven did always choose their way; And therefore we may boldly say

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I

And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude
In deserts solitude.

I should have then this only fear:

Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,

And so make a city here.

Abraham Cowley [1618-1667]

EXPOSTULATION AND REPLY

"WHY, William, on that old gray stone,

Thus for the length of half a day,

Why, William, sit you thus alone,
And dream your time away?

"Where are your books?—that light bequeathed

To beings else forlorn and blind!

Up! up! and drink the spirit breathed

From dead men to their kind.

"You look round on your Mother Earth,
As if she for no purpose bore you;
As if you were her first-born birth,
And none had lived before you!"

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,
When life was sweet, I knew not why,
To me my good friend Matthew spake,
And thus I made reply:

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