We brought away from battle,

And much their land bemoaned them,

Two thousand head of cattle,

And the head of him who owned them:

Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,

His head was borne before us;

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts,
And his overthrow, our chorus.

PEACOCK.

And soon that toil shall end;

Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend
Soon o'er thy shelter'd nest.

Thou'rt gone--the abyss of heaven Hath swallow'd up thy form-yet on my heart Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, And shall not soon depart.

He, who from zone to zone

Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, In the long way that I must tread alone,

W. C. BRYANT.

SO, WE'LL GO NO MORE A ROVING

I

So, we'll go no more a roving
So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.

II

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.

III

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

BYRON.

SONG

WHERE the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip's bell I lie;

There I couch, when owls do cry:

On the bat's back I do fly

After summer merrily.

Merrily, merrily, shall I live now,

Under the blossom that hangs on the bough!

Come unto these yellow sands,

And then take hands:

Courtsied when you have and kiss'd

The wild waves whist,

Foot it featly here and there;

And, sweet Sprites, the burthen bear.
Hark, hark!
Bow-wow.

The watch-dogs bark:
Bow-wow.

Hark, hark! I hear

The strain of strutting chanticleer

Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow!

SHAKESPEARE.

THE LAND O' THE LEAL

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean,

I'm wearin' awa'

To the land o' the leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean,
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,

The day is aye fair

In the land o' the leal.

Ye were aye leal and true, Jean,
Your task's ended noo, Jean,
And I'll welcome you

To the land o' the leal.

Our bonnie bairn's there, Jean,
She was baith guid and fair, Jean;
O we grudged her right sair
To the land o' the leal!

Then dry that tearfu' e'e, Jean,
My soul langs to be free, Jean,
And angels wait on me

To the land o' the leal.

Now fare ye weel, my ain Jean,
This warld's care is vain, Jean;
We'll meet and aye be fain

In the land o' the leal.

LADY NAIRNE.