In Merry
Mood

And tossing and crossing,
And flowing and going,
And running and stunning,
And foaming and roaming,
And dinning and spinning,
And dropping and hopping,
And working and jerking,
And guggling and struggling,
And heaving and cleaving,
And moaning and groaning;
And glittering and frittering,
And gathering and feathering,
And whitening and brightening,
And quivering and shivering,
And hurrying and skurrying,
And thundering and floundering;

Dividing and gliding and sliding,
And falling and brawling and sprawling,
And driving and riving and striving,
And sprinkling and twinkling and wrinkling,
And sounding and bounding and rounding,
And bubbling and troubling and doubling,
And grumbling and rumbling and tumbling,
And clattering and battering and shattering;
Retreating and beating and meeting and sheet-
ing,

Delaying and straying and playing and spray

ing,

Advancing and prancing and glancing and In Merry

dancing,

Recoiling, turmoiling and toiling and boiling,
And gleaming and streaming and steaming and

beaming,

And rushing and flushing and brushing and gushing,

And flapping and rapping and clapping and slapping,

And curling and whirling and purling and twirl

ing,

And thumping and plumping and bumping and jumping,

And dashing and flashing and splashing and
clashing;

And so never ending, but always descending,
Sounds and motions forever and ever are blend-

ing,

All at once and all o'er, with a mighty uproar,
And this way the Water comes down at Lodore.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

Mood

The Enchanted Shirt

The king was sick. His cheek was red,

And his eye was clear and bright;
He ate and drank with kingly zest,
And peacefully snored at night.

In Merry But he said he was sick, and a king should know,
Mood
And the doctors came by the score.

They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,

And sent to the schools for more.

At last two famous doctors came,

And one was as poor as a rat,—
He had passed his life in studious toil,
And never found time to grow fat.

The other had never looked in a book;
His patients gave him no trouble:
If they recovered, they paid him well;
If they died, their heirs paid double.

Together they looked at the royal tongue,
As the king on his couch reclined;
In succession they thumped his august chest,
But no trace of disease could find.

The old Sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.'

66

Hang him up," roared the king in a gale— In a ten-knot gale of royal rage;

The other leech grew a shade pale;

But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,
And thus his prescription ran—

The king will be well, if he sleeps one night
In the shirt of a Happy Man.

Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,

And fast their horses ran,

And many they saw, and to many they spoke,

But they found no Happy Man.

They found poor men who would fain be rich,
And rich who thought they were poor;
And men who twisted their waists in stays,
And women who short hose wore.

At last they came to a village gate,
A beggar lay whistling there;

He whistled, and sang, and laughed, and rolled
On the grass, in the soft June air.

The weary couriers paused and looked
At the scamp so blithe and gay;

66

And one of them said, " Heaven save you, friend!
You seem to be happy to-day."

66

"O yes, fair Sirs," the rascal laughed,

And his voice rang free and glad;

"An idle man has so much to do

That he never has time to be sad."

"This is our man," the courier said;
"Our luck has led us aright.

I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,
For the loan of your shirt to-night."

The merry blackguard lay back on the grass,
And laughed till his face was black;

In Merry

Mood

In Merry" I would do it, God wot," and he roared with the Mood

66

fun,

But I haven't a shirt to my back."

Each day to the king the reports came in
Of his unsuccessful spies,

And the sad panorama of human woes
Passed daily under his eyes.

And he grew ashamed of his useless life,
And his maladies hatched in gloom;
He opened his windows and let the air
Of the free heaven into his room.

And out he went in the world, and toiled

In his own appointed way;

And the people blessed him, the land was glad,
And the king was well and gay.

JOHN HAY.

Made in the Hot Weather

Fountains that frisk and sprinkle

The moss they overspill;

Pools that the breezes crinkle;

The wheel beside the mill,

With its wet, weedy frill;