THE SHEPHERD HOW sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot! For he hears the lamb's innocent call, THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER WHEN my mother died I was very young, There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curl'd like a lamb's back, was shav'd: so I said, 'Hush, Tom! never mind it, for, when your head's bare You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.' And so he was quiet, and that very night, As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight!— That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack, Were all of them lock'd up in coffins of black. And by came an Angel, who had a bright key, Then naked and white, all their bags left behind, And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark, warm; So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm. William Blake THE ECHOING GREEN THE Sun does arise, And make happy the skies; To welcome the Spring; To the bells' cheerful sound, Old John, with white hair, Till the little ones, weary, The sun does descend, And our sports have an end. Round the laps of their mothers Many sisters and brothers, Like birds in their nest, Are ready for rest, And sport no more seen On the darkening Green. William Blake SPRING SOUND the flute! Merrily, Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year. Little boy Full of joy; Little girl, Sweet and small; Cock does crow, So do you; Merry voice, Infant noise, Merrily, merrily, to welcome in the year. Little lamb, Here I am; Come and lick My white neck; Let me pull Your soft wool; Let me kiss Your soft face: Merrily, merrily, we welcome in the year. William Blake MEG MERRILIES OLD Meg she was a gipsy; Her bed it was the brown heath turf, Her wine was dew of the wild white rose, Her brothers were the craggy hills, Alone with her great family She lived as she did please. And, 'stead of supper, she would stare But every morn, of woodbine fresh And, every night, the dark glen yew She plaited mats of rushes, And gave them to the cottagers She met among the bushes. Old Meg was as brave as Margaret Queen, And tall as Amazon; An old red blanket cloak she wore, A chip-hat had she on: God rest her aged bones somewhere! She died full long agone! John Keats |