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LYRIC POEMS

POEMS OF JOY IN LIFE

HUNTING SONG

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day;

. All the jolly chase is here

With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily merrily mingle they,
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay;
'Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay

Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we;

Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;

Think of this, and rise with day,

Gentle lords and ladies gay!

Sir W. Scott.

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornéd moon

And lightning in yon cloud;

But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashes free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

A. Cunningham.

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Swifter and yet more swift
Till the heart, with a mighty lift,
Makes the lungs laugh, the throat cry—
'O bird, see; see, bird, I fly.

'Is this, is this your joy,
O bird, then I, though a boy,
For a golden moment share
Your feathery life in air!'

Say, heart, is there aught like this
In a world that is full of bliss?
'Tis more than skating, bound
Steel-shod to the level ground.

Speed slackens now, I float
Awhile in my airy boat;

Till when the wheels scarce crawl,

My feet to the pedals fall.

Alas that the longest hill

Must end in a vale; but still

Who climbs with toil, wheresoe'er,

Shall find wings waiting there!

H. C. Beeching.

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