And when 'tis o'er we'll crowd the floor,
In jocund pairs advance,
No voice be mute, and each shrill flute,
Shall cheer the mazy dance.
When morning breaks, and man awakes
From sleep's restoring hours,
The flocks, the field, his house we yield,
To his more active powers.
While clad in green, unheard, unseen,
On sunny banks we'll play,
And give to man his little span,
His empire of the day.
PRONOUNCED as one letter, and written with three,
Two letters there are, and two only in me;
I am double, am single, am black, blue, and gray,
I am read from both ends, and the same either way,
I am restless and wandering, steady and fix'd,
And you know not one hour what I may be the
next;
I melt and I kindle, beseech and defy,
I am watery and moist, I am fiery and dry.
I am scornful and scowling, compassionate, meek,
I am light, I am dark, I am strong, I am weak.
I am sluggish and dead, I am lively and bright,
I am sharp, I am flat, I am left, I am right.
I am piercing and clear, I am heavy and dull,
Expressive and languid, contracted and full,
I am careless and vacant, I search and I pry,
And judge, and decide, and examine, and try.
I'm a globe, and a mirror, a window, a door,
An index, an organ, and fifty things more.
I belong to all animals under the sun,
And to those which were long understood to have
By some I am said to exist in the mind,
And am found in potatoes, and needles, and wind.
Three jackets I own, of glass, water, and horn,
And I wore them all three on the day I was born.
I am cover'd quite snug, have a lid and a fringe,
Yet I move every way on invisible hinge.
A pupil I have, a most whimsical wight,
Who is little by day, and grows big in the night,
Whom I cherish with care as part of myself,
For in truth I depend on this delicate elf,
Who collects all my food, and with wonderful knack,
Throws it into a net which I keep at my back;
And, though heels over head it arrives, in a trice
and nice.
It is sent up to table all
I am spoken of sometimes as if I were glass,
But then it is false, and the trick will not pass.
A blow makes me run though I have not a limb;
Though I neither have fins nor a bladder, I swim.
Like many more couples, my partner and I
At times will look cross at each other and shy;
Yet still, though we differ in what we're about,
One will do all the work when the other is out.
I am least apt to cry, as they always remark,
When trimm'd with good lashes, or kept in the
dark.
Should I fret and be heated they put me to bed,
And leave me to cool upon water and bread.
But if harden'd I grow they make use of the knife
Lest an obstinate humour endanger my life.
Or you may, though the treatment appears to be
rough,
Run a spit through my side and with safety enough.
Like boys who are fond of the fruit and their play,
I am seen with my ball and my apple all day.
My belt is a rainbow, I reel and I dance,
I am said to retire, though I never advance.
I am read by physicians as one of their books,
And am used by the ladies to fasten their hooks.
My language is plain, though it cannot be heard,
And I speak without ever pronouncing a word.
Some call me a diamond; some say I am jet;
Others talk of my water, or how I am set.
I'm a borough in England, in Scotland a stream,
And an isle of the sea in the Irishman's dream.
The earth without me would no loveliness wear,
And sun, moon, and stars, at my wish disappear;
Yet so frail is my tenure, so brittle my joy,
That a speck gives me pain, and a drop can destroy.
No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have Winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more,
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amazed to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.
On the fairest time in June You may go with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you; Or the polar ray to right you; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold; Never one, of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent; For he left the merry tale Messenger for spicy ale.
Gone the merry morris din; Gone the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw Idling in the "greenè shawe;" and past!
All are gone away
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his tufted grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest-days,
She would weep and he would craze,
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fallen beneath the dock-yard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas:
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her-strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!
So it is; yet let us sing
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln-green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight Little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to Maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood clan!
Though their days have hurried by,
Let us two a burden try.
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