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THE master, the swabber, the boatswain and I,

The gunner and his mate,
Loved Mall, Meg and Marian and Margery,

But none of us cared for Kate ;
For she had a tongue with a tang,

Would cry to a sailor, Go hang !
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch,
Yet a tailor might scratch her where'er she did

itch : Then to sea, boys, and let her go hang!

XXXVI

THE POWER OF SONG

ORPHEUS with his lute made trees

And the mountain tops that freeze Bow themselves when he did sing : To his music plants and flowers Ever sprung; as sun and showers

There had made a lasting spring.

Every thing that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea, .

Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music in such art,
Killing care and grief of heart

Fall asleep, or hearing, die.

XXXVII

SPRING

W HEN daisies pied and violets blue

And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue

Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo :-0 word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!

When shepherds pipe on oaten straws

And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks, When turtles tread, and rooks, and daws,

And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men; for thus sings he,

Cuckoo;
Cuckoo, cuckoo :-0 word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear !

XXXVIII

WINTER

W HEN icicles hang by the wall

And Dick the shepherd blows his nail And Tom bears logs into the hall

And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-whit;
Tu-who ;-a merry note ;-'
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

When all aloud the wind doth blow

And coughing drowns the parson's saw And birds sit brooding in the snow

And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,

Tu-whit;
Tu-who ;-a merry note ;-
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.

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TOVE, Love, nothing but Love, still more !

For, 0, love's bow Shoots buck and doe: The shaft confounds, Not that it wounds, But tickles still the sore.

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