And there is room lefte yet in a kantle, For thine to stande, to make the twelfth out: When this mortal message from his mouthe past, Princes puffed; barons blustred; lords began lower; stower; Pages and yeomen yelled out in the hall, Silence, my soveraignes, quoth this courteous knight, And, when he had eaten and drunken his fill, Were given this dwarf for his message bold. But say to Sir Ryence, thou dwarf, quoth the king, With swords, and not razors, quickly shall trye, Whether he or King Arthur will prove the best barbor, And therewith he shook his good sword Escalàbor. Percy's Reliques. CARI Carisbrooke. CARISBROOKE CHIMES. ARISBROOKE Church on the fifth of November Over the woods and the fields rich with tillage, Might hear the sweet echoes chime back from the hill. I think, my old church, you are somewhat ungracious, And do not remember from whence you descended; Who planned you so skilfully, framed you so spacious, And laid your stone walls with zeal pious and splendid ! What was the fount of that bountiful spirit Which fashioned each porch to the innermost throne? Who pierced the fair windows whose light we inherit, And carved the quaint heads of your corbels of stone? Do you forget how the people rejoicéd When first you stood finished, the crown of the vale? What hymns of thanksgiving rose myriad-voicéd, What rich scent of incense was borne on the gale? Or have you forgotten how red were the roses Which wreathed the new altar now ancient and gray? Ah! many a witness around you reposes, Whose dead lips, unsealed, would remember that day! Pacing the churchyard by moonlight in summer, Watching the rainbow when green leaves turn sere, I think to the heart of a thoughtful new-comer, Each trace of the old Faith should surely be dear. All she did here was both noble and tender; peace to her dust; Inspired by her beauty, amazed by her splendor, The poet at least can afford to be just. And I cannot endure to hear you assuring, At the top of your voice, (though a sweet one, 't is true!) The mother who reared you with love so enduring, That she and her children are nothing to you. Bessie Rayner Parkes. Carlisle. LINES WRITTEN ON A WINDOW-PANE AT THE OLD BUSH HOTEL. HERE chicks in eggs for breakfast sprawl; Here godless boys God's glories squall; Here heads of Scotchmen guard the wall; David Hume. THE SUN SHINES FAIR ON CARLISLE WALL. HE leaned her head against a thorn, SHE The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'; And there she has her young babe born, And the lyon shall be lord of a'. "Smile no sae sweet, my bonnie babe, An ye smile sae sweet ye'll smile me dead," She's howket a grave by the light o' the moon, And there she's buried her sweet babe in, As she was going to the church, "O bonnie babe, an ye were mine, The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'; "O mother mine, when I was thine, "But now I'm in the heavens hie, The sun shines fair on Carlisle wa'; And ye have the pains of hell to dree And the lyon shall be lord of a'. Anonymous. LOVE SHALL BE LORD OF ALL. T was an English ladye bright, IT The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall, And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun, When he shone fair on Carlisle wall, But they were sad ere day was done, Though Love was still the lord of all. Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine, For she had lands, both meadow and lea, That wine she had not tasted well, |