THE BUGLE SONG

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

HE splendour falls on castle walls

THE

And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,

They faint on hill or field or river;

Our echoes roll from soul to soul,

And grow forever and forever.

Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

CRADLE SONG

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

HAT does little birdie say

In her nest at peep of day?

Let me fly, says little birdie,
Mother, let me fly away.
Birdie, rest a little longer,
Till the little wings are stronger.
So she rests a little longer,
Then she flies away.

What does little baby say,
In her bed at peep of day?
Baby says, like little birdie,
Let me rise and fly away.
Baby, sleep a little longer,
Till the little limbs are stronger.
If she sleeps a little longer,
Baby, too, shall fly away.

"A

“A year hence, a year hence."

"We shall both be gray."

"A month hence, a month hence."

"Far, far away."

"A week hence, a week hence."

"Ah, the long delay." "Wait a little, wait a little, You shall fix a day."

"To-morrow, love, to-morrow,
And that's an age away."
Blaze upon her window, sun,
And honour all the day.

WINTER

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

HE frost is here,

THE

And fuel is dear,

And woods are sear,

And fires burn clear,

And frost is here

And has bitten the heel of the going year.
Bite, frost, bite!

You roll up away from the light

The blue woodlouse and the plump dormouse, And the bees are still'd, and the flies are kill'd,

And you bite far into the heart of the house, But not into mine.

Bite, frost, bite!

The woods are all the searer,

The fuel is all the dearer,

The fires are all the clearer,

My spring is all the nearer,

You have bitten into the heart of the earth

But not into mine.

S

LULLABY

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

WEET and low, sweet and low,

Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest on Mother's breast,

Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.