As the rapture unpolluted,
As the passion undefiled,

By whose force all pains heart-rooted
Are transfigured and transmuted,
Recompensed and reconciled,

Through the imperial, undisputed,
Present godhead of a child.

Brown bright eyes and fair bright head,
Worth a worthier crown than this is,
Worth a worthier song instead,

Sweet grave wise round mouth, full fed
With the joy of love, whose bliss is
More than mortal wine and bread,
Lips whose words are sweet as kisses.

Little hands so glad of giving,

Little heart so glad of love,

Little soul so glad of living,

While the strong swift hours are weaving

Light with darkness woven above,

Time for mirth and time for grieving,
Plume of raven and plume of dove.

I can give you but a word
Warm with love therein for leaven,
But a song that falls unheard
Yet on ears of sense unstirred

Yet by song so far from Heaven,

Whence you came the brightest bird,
Seven years since, of seven times seven.

Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

CREEP AFORE YE GANG

CREEP awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang,
Cock ye baith your lugs to your auld Grannie's sang:
Gin ye gang as far ye will think the road lang,
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang,

Castles in the Air

Creep awa', my bairnie, ye're ower young to learn
To tot up and down yet, my bonnie wee bairn;
Better creepin' cannie, than fa'in' wi' a bang,
Duntin' a' your wee brow,-creep afore ye gang.

245

Ye'll creep, an' ye'll hotch, an' ye'll nod to your mither,
Watchin' ilka step o' your wee dousy brither;

Rest ye on the floor till your wee limbs grow strang,
An' ye'll be a braw chiel yet,-creep afore ye gang.

The wee birdie fa's when it tries ower soon to flee,
Folks are sure to tumble, when they climb ower hie;
They wha canna walk right are sure to come to wrang,
Creep awa', my bairnie, creep afore ye gang.

James Ballantine [1808-1877]

CASTLES IN THE AIR

THE bonnie, bonnie bairn who sits poking in the ase,
Glowering in the fire wi' his wee round face,

Laughing at the fuffin' lowe-what sces he there?
Ha! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air.

His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow
Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe;
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair,
Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air.

He sees muckle castles towering to the moon;

He sees little sodgers pu'ing them a' doun;
Warlds whommlin' up and doun, bleezing wi' a flare,—
See how he loups as they glimmer in the air!

For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken?
He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men:

A wee thing mak's us think, a sma' thing mak's us stare,—
There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air.

Sic a night in winter may weel mak' him cauld:
His chin upon his buffy hand will soon mak' him auld;
His brow is brent sae braid-O pray that daddy Care
Wad let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air!

He'll glower at the fire, and he'll keek at the light;
But mony sparkling stars are swallowed up by Night:
Aulder e'en than his are glamored by a glare,-

Hearts are broken, heads are turned, wi' castles in the air.
James Ballantine [1808-1877]

UNDER MY WINDOW

UNDER my window, under my window,
All in the Midsummer weather,
Three little girls with fluttering curls

Flit to and fro together;

There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
Leaning stealthily over,

Merry and clear, the voice I hear

Of each glad-hearted rover,

Ah! sly little Kate, she steals my roses;
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies,
As merry as bees in clover.

Under my window, under my window,
In the blue Midsummer weather,

Stealing slow, on a hushed tiptoe,

I catch them all together:-
Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen,
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green,
And Kate with her scarlet feather.

Under my window, under my window,
And off through the orchard closes;
While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts,
They scamper and drop their posies;
But dear little Kate takes naught amiss,
And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss,
And I give her all my roses.

Thomas Westwood [1814?-1888]

Little Bell

247

LITTLE BELL

He prayeth well who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

THE ANCIENT MARINER

PIPED the blackbird on the beechwood spray.

"Pretty maid, slow wandering this way,

What's your name?" quoth he

"What's your name? Oh stop and straight unfold, Pretty maid with showery curls of gold,"

"Little Bell,” said she.

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks-Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks— "Bonny bird," quoth she,

"Sing me your best song before I go." "Here's the very finest song I know, Little Bell," said he.

And the blackbird piped; you never heard
Half so gay a song from any bird—

Full of quips and wiles,

Now so round and rich, now soft and slow.
All for love of that sweet face below,
Dimpled o'er with smiles.

And the while the bonny bird did pour
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er
'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow,
And shine forth in happy overflow

From the blue, bright eyes.

Down the dell she tripped and through the glade,
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade,

And from out the tree

Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of fear,-— While bold blackbird piped that all might hear— "Little Bell," piped he.

Little Bell sat down amid the fern-
"Squirrel, to your task return-—
Bring me nuts," quoth she.
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies-
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes——
And adown the tree,

Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun,
In the little lap dropped one by one-
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see the fun!
"Happy Bell," pipes he.

Little Bell looked up and down the glade-
"Squirrel, squirrel, if you're not afraid,
Come and share with me!"

Down came squirrel eager for his fare-
Down came bonny blackbird I declare;
Little Bell gave each his honest share-
Ah the merry three!

And the while these frolic playmates twain Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 'Neath the morning skies,

In the little childish heart below

All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, And shine out in happy overflow

From her blue, bright eyes.

By her snow-white cot at close of day,

Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray

Very calm and clear

Rose the praying voice to where, unseen,

In blue heaven, an angel shape serene

Paused awhile to hear

"What good child is this," the angel said,

"That, with happy heart, beside her bed

Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, oh! very low and soft,

Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft,

"Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care;