Shalt thou his faults with eye severe explore, And give to life one human weakness more? Still mark if vice or nature prompts the deed; Still mark the strong temptation and the need; On pressing want, on famine's powerful call, At least more lenient let thy justice fall.

APOLOGY FOR VAGRANTS

For him who, lost to every hope of life,
Has long with fortune held unequal strife,
Known to no human love, no human care,
The friendless, homeless object of despair;
For the poor vagrant, feel while he complains,
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains.
Alike, if folly or misfortune brought
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought;
Believe with social mercy and with me,
Folly's misfortune in the first degree.
Perhaps on some inhospitable shore
The houseless wretch a widowed parent bore,
Who, then no more by golden prospects led,
Of the poor Indian begged a leafy bed;
Cold on Canadian hills, or Minden's plain,
Perhaps that parent mourned her soldier slain,
Bent o'er her babe, her eye dissolved in dew,
The big drops mingling with the milk he drew,
Gave the sad presage of his future years,
The child of misery, baptized in tears!

AUGUSTUS MONTAGU TOPLADY

ROCK OF AGES

Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!
Let the water and the blood

From Thy riven side which flowed,

Be of sin the double cure,

Cleanse me from its guilt and power.

Not the labors of my hands
Can fulfil Thy law's demands;
Could my zeal no respite know,
Could my tears forever flow,
All for sin could not atone;
Thou must save, and Thou alone.

Nothing in my hand I bring;
Simply to Thy cross I cling;
Naked, come to Thee for dress;
Helpless, look to Thee for grace;
Foul, I to the fountain fly;
Wash me, Saviour, or I die!

While I draw this fleeting breath,
When my eyestrings break in death,
When I soar through tracts unknown,
See Thee on Thy judgment-throne;
Rock of Ages, cleft for me,
Let me hide myself in Thee!

JOHN SKINNER

TULLOCHGORUM

Come gie's a sang! Montgomery cried,
And lay your disputes all aside;
What signifies 't for folk to chide

For what's been done before 'em?

Let Whig and Tory all agree,
Whig and Tory, Whig and Tory,
Let Whig and Tory all agree

To drop their Whig-mig-morum!

Let Whig and Tory all agree
To spend the night in mirth and glee,
And cheerfu' sing, alang wi' me,

The reel o' Tullochgorum!

O, Tullochgorum's my delight;
It gars us a' in ane unite;

And ony sumph' that keeps up spite,
In conscience I abhor him:
For blythe and cheery we's be a',
Blythe and cheery, blythe and cheery,
Blythe and cheery we's be a',

And mak a happy quorum;

For blythe and cheery we's be a',
As lang as we hae breath to draw,
And dance, till we be like to fa',
The reel o' Tullochgorum!

There needs na be sae great a phrase
Wi' dringing dull Italian lays;
I wadna gi'e our ain strathspeys

For half a hundred score o' 'em: They're douff and dowie at the best, Douff and dowie, douff and dowie, They're douff and dowie at the best, Wi' a' their variorum;

They're douff and dowie at the best,
Their allegros and a' the rest;
They canna please a Scottish taste,
Compared wi' Tullochgorum.

Let warldly minds themselves oppress
Wi' fears of want and double cess,
And sullen sots themselves distress
Wi' keeping up decorum:
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit?
Sour and sulky, sour and sulky,
Shall we sae sour and sulky sit,
Like auld Philosophorum?
Shall we so sour and sulky sit,
Wi' neither sense nor mirth nor wit,
Nor ever rise to shake a fit

To the reel o' Tullochgorum?

May choicest blessings still attend
Each honest, open-hearted friend;
And calm and quiet be his end,

And a' that's good watch o'er him!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Peace and plenty, peace and plenty,
May peace and plenty be his lot,

And dainties a great store o' em!
May peace and plenty be his lot,
Unstained by any vicious spot,
And may he never want a groat

That's fond o' Tullochgorum!

But for the dirty, yawning fool
Who wants to be Oppression's tool,
May envy gnaw his rotten soul,

And discontent devour him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Dool and sorrow, dool and sorrow,
May dool and sorrow be his chance,

And nane say 'wae's me' for him!
May dool and sorrow be his chance,
Wi' a' the ills that come frae France,
Whae'er he be, that winna dance
The reel o' Tullochgorum!

THOMAS CHATTERTON

[SONGS FROM "ELLA, A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE, WROTENN BIE THOMAS ROWLEIE"]

[THE BODDYNGE FLOURETTES BLOSHES ATTE THE LYGHTE]

FYRSTE MYNSTRELLE

The boddynge flourettes bloshes atte the lyghte;
The mees be sprenged wyth the yellowe hue;
Ynn daiseyd mantels ys the mountayne dyghte;
The nesh yonge coweslepe blendethe wyth the dewe;
The trees enlefèd, yntoe Heavenne straughte,

Whenn gentle wyndes doe blowe to whestlyng dynne ys brought.

The evenynge commes, and brynges the dewe alonge; The roddie welkynne sheeneth to the eyne; Arounde the alestake Mynstrells synge the songe; Yonge ivie rounde the doore poste do entwyne; I laie mee onn the grasse; yette, to mie wylle, Albeytte alle ys fayre, there lackethe somethynge stylle.

SECONDE MYNSTRELLE

So Adam thoughtenne, whann, ynn Paradyse, All Heavenn and Erthe dyd hommage to hys mynde; Ynn Womman alleyne mannès pleasaunce lyes; As Instrumentes of joie were made the kynde. Go, take a wyfe untoe thie armes, and see Wynter and brownie hylles wyll have a charm for thee.

THYRDE MYNSTRELLE

Whanne Autumpne blake and sonne-brente doe appere, With hys goulde honde guylteynge the falleynge lefe, Bryngeynge oppe Wynterr to folfylle the yere, Beerynge uponne hys backe the ripèd shefe; Whan al the hyls wythe woddie sede ys whyte; Whanne levynne-fyres and lemes do mete from far the

syghte;

Whann the fayre apple, rudde as even skie,
Do bende the tree unto the fructyle grounde;
When joicie peres, and berries of blacke die,
Doe daunce yn ayre, and call the eyne arounde;
Thann, bee the even foule or even fayre,

Meethynckes mie hartys joie ys steynced wyth somme care.

SECONDE MYNSTRELLE

Angelles bee wrogte to bee of neidher kynde; Angelles alleyne fromme chafe desyre bee free: Dheere ys a somwhatte evere yn the mynde, Yatte, wythout wommanne, cannot styllèd bee; Ne seyncte yn celles, botte, havynge blodde and tere, Do fynde the spryte to joie on syghte of womanne fayre;