THE TRUMPET'S LOUD CLANGOR

From A SONG FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY

JOHN DRYDEN

HE trumpet's loud clangour

THE

Excites us to arms

With shrill notes of anger

And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat
Of the thundering drum

Cries, "Hark! the foes come;
Charge, charge, 'tis too late to retreat."

The soft complaining flute

In dying notes discovers

The woes of hopeless lovers,

Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute.

But, oh! what art can teach,
What human voice can reach

The sacred organ's praise?

Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their heavenly ways
To mend the choirs above.

ODE ON SOLITUDE

ALEXANDER POPE

APPY the man whose wish and care

A few paternal acres bound,

Content to breathe his native air,

In his own ground.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,

Blest, who can unconcernedly find

In winter fire.

Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind,

Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease,
Together mixed; sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,

With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown,

Thus unlamented let me die,

Steal from the world, and not a stone

Tell where I lie.

MY PEGGY

From THE GENTLE SHEPHERD

ALLAN RAMSAY

Y Peggy is a young thing, Just entered in her teens, Fair as the day, and sweet as May, Fair as the day, and always gay. My Peggy is a young thing, And I'm not very auld,

Yet well I like to meet her at
The wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
Whene'er we meet alane,

I wish nae mair to lay my care,
I wish nae mair of all that's rare,
My Peggy speaks sae sweetly,
To a' the lave I'm cauld;
But she gars a' my spirits glow
At wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,
Whene'er I whisper love,

That I look down on a' the town,
That I look down upon a crown.

My Peggy smiles sae kindly,

It makes me blithe and baúld, And naething gi'es me sic delight, As wauking of the fauld.

My Peggy sings sae saftly,
When on my pipe I play;
By a' the rest it is confest,
By a' the rest, that she sings best.
My Peggy sings sae saftly,

And in her sangs are tauld, With innocence, the wale of sense, At wauking of the fauld.

TO A FLY

WILLIAM OLDYS

BUSY, curious, thirsty Fly,

Drink with me, and drink as I!

Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip, and sip it up:
Make the most of life you may!
Life is short and wears away.

Both alike are mine and thine,
Hast'ning quick to this decline :-
Thine's a summer: mine's no more,
Though repeated to three-score:-
Three-score summers, when they're gone,
Will appear as short as one.