Out-owre yon moory mountain,

And down the craigy glen,
Of naething else our lassies sing
But Charlie and his men.

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,

The young Chevalier.

Our Highland hearts are true and leal, And glow without a stain;

Our Highland swords are metal keen, And Charlie he's our ain.

And Charlie he's my darling,

My darling, my darling,
Charlie he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

W

THE THRUSH'S NEST

JOHN CLARE

ITHIN a thick and spreading hawthorn bush,

That overhung a mole-hill large and round,
I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush
Sing hymns of rapture, while I drank the sound
With joy; and oft an unintruding guest,

I watch'd her secret toils from day to day,
How true she warp'd the moss to form her nest,
And modell'd it within with wood and clay.
And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew,
There lay her shining eggs as bright as flowers,
Ink-spotted over, shells of green and blue;
And there I witness'd, in the summer hours,
A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly,
Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky.

THE PRIEST AND THE MULBERRY TREE

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK

ID you hear of the curate who mounted his mare,
And merrily trotted along to the fair?

Of creature more tractable none ever heard;

In the height of her speed she would stop at a word; But again with a word, when the curate said, "Hey," She put forth her mettle and gallop'd away.

As near to the gates of the city he rode,
While the sun of September all brilliantly glow'd,
The good priest discover'd, with eyes of desire,
A mulberry tree in a hedge of wild brier;
On boughs long and lofty, in many a green shoot,
Hung, large, black and glossy, the beautiful fruit.

The curate was hungry and thirsty to boot;

He shrunk from the thorns, though he long'd for the

fruit;

With a word he arrested his courser's keen speed,

And he stood up erect on the back of his steed;

On the saddle he stood while the creature stood still, And he gather'd the fruit till he took his good fill.

"Sure never," he thought, "was a creature so rare,
So docile, so true, as my excellent mare;

Lo, here now I stand," and he gazed all around,
"As safe and as steady as if on the ground;
Yet how had it been, if some traveller this way,
Had, dreaming no mischief, but chanced to cry 'Hey'?'

He stood with his head in the mulberry tree,
And he spoke out aloud in his fond revery;

At the sound of the word the good mare made a push,
And down went the priest in the wild-brier bush.
He remember'd too late, on his thorny green bed,
Much that well may be thought cannot wisely be said.

SONG FOR THE TENDER BEECH AND SONG-FOR

THE SAPLING OAK

THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK

OR the tender beech and the sapling oak,
That grow by the shadowy rill,

You may cut down both at a single stroke,
You may cut down which you will.

But this you must know, that as long as they grow,
Whatever change may be,

You can never teach either oak or beech

To be aught but a greenwood tree.