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ALLEN-A-DALE

SIR WALTER SCOTT

ALLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale! 5
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,
The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; 10
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright:

Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;

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The mother, she ask'd of his household and home: 20 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,' quoth bold Allen,' shows gallanter still;

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'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,
And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone;
They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;
But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:
He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye.
And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,
And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale!

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JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

SIR WALTER SCOTT

'WHY Weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide ?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride:

And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But

aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen’

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But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

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A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen'

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.

They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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THE BELLS OF SHANDON

FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONEY

FRANCIS SYLVESTER MAHONEY (1805-1866) was born in Cork, Ireland. He was ordained as a priest, but gave up his calling and became one of the staff of Fraser's Magazine. He was a brilliant writer, witty and sarcastic. His works were collected in a volume entitled 'Reliques of Father Prout.' In the last years of his life he retired to a monastery.

WITH deep affection and recollection

I often think of those Shandon bells,

Whose songs so wild would, in the days of child

hood,

Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

On this I ponder where'er I wander,

And thus grow fonder, sweet Cork, of thee;

With thy bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells chiming full many a clime in,
Tolling sublime in cathedral shrine,

While at a glib rate brass tongues would vibrate —
But all their music spoke naught like thine;
For memory dwelling on each proud swelling
Of the belfry knelling its bold notes free,
Made the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

I've heard bells tolling old 'Adrian's Mole" in,
Their thunder rolling from the Vatican,
And cymbals glorious swinging uproarious

In the gorgeous turrets of Notre Dame ; °
But thy sounds were sweeter than the dome of Peter
Flings o'er the Tiber, pealing solemnly; —

Oh! the bells of Shandon

Sound far more grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

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In Saint Sophia the Turkman gets,

And loud in air calls men to prayer

From the tapering summits of tall minarets.

Such empty phantom I freely grant them;

But there is an anthem more dear to me, 'Tis the bells of Shandon,

That sound so grand on

The pleasant waters of the river Lee.

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ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY
CHURCHYARD

THOMAS GRAY

THOMAS GRAY (1716-1771) was born in London. He was one of the most learned men of his day. He wrote but few poems, but those he did write were exquisitely finished. It is said he was seven years writing and polishing the Elegy.' This poem is one of the best known and best beloved poems in the English language. Gray also wrote an 'Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College,' 'The Progress of Poesy,' and the 'Bard.' He died in 1771 and is buried at Stoke Pogis in the churchyard which he has immortalized in the 'Elegy.'

THE curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

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