Infans. Syr of some comforte I you crave- And I your true servaunt shall be. 2 Mundus. Fayre chylde, I graunte thee thyne askynge. And clepe 3 thee Wanton, in every game; [Infans is now called Wanton.] Wanton. Gramercy, Worlde, for myne araye, Mundus. Fare well, fayre chylde, and have good daye. Wanton. [Mundus goes out leaving Wanton alone.] Aha, Wanton is my name! I can many a quayntè game. Lo, my toppe I dryve in same, Se, it torneth rounde! I can with my scorge-stycke My felowe upon the heed hytte, 6 And wyghtly from hym make a skyppe; And blere on hym my tonge. If brother or syster do me chyde I wyll scratche and also byte. I can crye, and also kyke, And mocke them all berewe. If fader or mother wyll me smyte, 8 I wyll wrynge with my lyppe; And lyghtly from hym make a skyppe; Aha, a newe game have I founde: 36 I can daunce, and also skyppe; I can playe at the chery pytte; And I can wystell you a fytte,7 Ye, syrs, and every daye Whan I to scole shall take the waye Some good mannes gardyn I wyll assaye, 9 Perys and plommes to plucke. I can spye a sparowes nest. I wyll not go to scole but whan me lest, ... CHRISTMAS AT SEA THE sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand; The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand; The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea; And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee. They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day; But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay. We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout, And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about. All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North; All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth; All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread, For very life and nature we tacked from head to head. We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide-race roared; But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard: So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high, And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye. The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam; The good red fires were burning bright in every 'longshore home; The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out; And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about. The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year) This day of our adversity was blessèd Christmas morn, And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born. O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there, My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair; And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves, Go dancing round the china-plates that stand upon the shelves. And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me, Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea; And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way, To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day. They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall. "All hands to loose topgallant sails," I heard the captain call, "By the Lord, she'll never stand it," our first mate, Jackson, cried. ..."It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson," he replied. She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good. And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood. As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night, We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light. And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me, As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea; But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold, Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON TWILIGHT THE twilight is sad and cloudy, But in the fisherman's cottage 38 Close, close it is pressed to the window, And a woman's waving shadow Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, bleak and wild, And why do the roaring ocean, And the night-wind, wild and bleak, HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW "HOW'S MY BOY?" "Ho, sailor of the sea! How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" "My boy John— He that went to sea What care I for the ship, sailor? My boy's my boy to me. "You come back from sea And not know my John! I might as well have asked some landsman Yonder down in the town. There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. "How's my boy-my boy? |