O forty miles off Aberdeen,

'Tis fifty fathoms deep,

And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,
Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

"

AGINCOURT

This poem is a boast, but a splendid boast. To despise the enemy, to call them "the false French" and peasants," when peasant" was strangely a word of contempt, is not according to our ideal of war; but the life and energy of the poem are grand. The metre is seldom or never used now. Be sure, in reading it, to give four stresses or beats to the three long lines; don't read them trippingly, in triplets. If learners of music, think of crotchets.

S.P.

FAIR stood the wind for France
When we our sails advance,
Nor now to prove our chance
Longer will tarry;

But putting to the main,
At Caux, the mouth of Seine,
With all his martial train
Landed King Harry.

And taking many a fort,
Furnish'd in warlike sort,
Marcheth tow'rds Agincourt
In happy hour;

B

Skirmishing day by day

With those that stopp'd his way, Where the French general lay With all his power.

And turning to his men,
Quoth our brave Henry then,
Though they to one be ten
Be not amazèd :
Yet have we well begun;
Battles so bravely won
Have ever to the sun

By fame been raised.

"And for myself (quoth he)
This my full rest shall be:
England ne'er mourn for me
Nor more esteem me :

Victor I will remain

Or on this earth lie slain;
Never shall she sustain

Loss to redeem me.

"Poitiers and Cressy tell,
When most their pride did swell,
Under our swords they fell:
No less our skill is

Than when our grandsire great,
Claiming the regal seat,

By many a warlike feat

Lopp'd the French lilies."

The Duke of York so dread
The eager vaward led;
With the main Henry sped
Among his henchmen.
Excester had the rear,
A braver man not there;
O Lord, how hot they were
On the false Frenchmen !

They now to fight are gone, Armour on armour shone, Drum now to drum did groan, To hear was wonder;

That with the cries they make The very earth did shake: Trumpet to trumpet spake, Thunder to thunder.

Well it thine age became,
O noble Erpingham,
Which didst the signal aim
To our hid forces!

When from a meadow by,
Like a storm suddenly
The English archery

Stuck the French horses.

With Spanish yew so strong,
Arrows a cloth-yard long
That like to serpents stung,
Piercing the weather;
None from his fellow starts,
But playing manly parts,
And like true English hearts
Stuck close together.

When down their bows they threw,
And forth their bilbos drew,

And on the French they flew,
Not one was tardy;

Arms were from shoulders sent,
Scalps to the teeth were rent,
Down the French peasants went-
Our men were hardy.

This while our noble king,
His broadsword brandishing,

Down the French host did ding
As to o'erwhelm it;

And many a deep wound lent,
His arms with blood besprent,
And many a cruel dent

Bruised his helmet.

Gloster, that duke so good,
Next of the royal blood,
For famous England stood

With his brave brother;
Clarence, in steel so bright,
Though but a maiden knight,
Yet in that furious fight
Scarce such another.

Warwick in blood did wade,
Oxford the foe invade,

And cruel slaughter made

Still as they ran up;

Suffolk his axe did ply,
Beaumont and Willoughby
Bare them right doughtily,
Ferrers and Fanhope.

Upon Saint Crispin's Day
Fought was this noble fray,
Which fame did not delay

To England to carry.
O when shall English men
With such acts fill a pen?
Or England breed again
Such a King Harry?

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE

Love of the country. Modern people speak often of their love of Nature, but the true love of country liferough and smooth-is not modern.

UNDER the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And tune his merry note

Unto the sweet bird's throat,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

Who doth ambition shun,

And loves to live i' the sun

Seeking the food he eats,

And pleased with what he gets,

Come hither, come hither, come hither:

Here shall he see

No enemy

But winter and rough weather.

SHAKESPEARE.