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Wi' a cogi o' gude swats* and an auld Scottish sang.

I whiles claw* the elbow o' troublesome Thought;

But man is a soger, and life is a faught; My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch,

And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 8

A towmond* o' trouble, should that be my fa'" A night o' gude fellowship sowthers0 it a'; When at the blythe end of our journey at last, Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has pastf

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte* on her way;

Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jade gae:

Come ease or come travail, come pleasure or pain,

My warst word is "Welcome, and welcome again!" 16


Is there," for honest poverty,

That kings his bead, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that I For a' that, an' a' that,

Our toils obscure, an' a' that; The rank is but the guinea's stamp;

The man's the gowd» for a' that. 8

What though on namely fare we dine,

Wear hodden-grey,10 an' a' that; Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that,

Their tinsel show, an' a' that; The honest man, tho' e 'er sae poor,

Is king o' men for a' that. 16

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Ye see yon birkie,1 ca'd a lord,

Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that; Tho' hundreds worship at his word,

He's but a coofz for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that,

His riband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that. 24

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's aboon his might,

Guid faith, he mauna fa's that!
For a' that, an' a' that,

Their dignities, an' a' that,
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,

Are higher rank than a' that. 32

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will for a' that,
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree,* an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,

It's coming yet for a' that, That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be for a' that. 40


0, wert thou in the cauld blast,

On yonder lea, on yonder lea, My plaidie to the angry airt,"

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. Or did misfortune's bitter storms

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, Thy bield* should be my bosom,

To share it a', to share it a'. 8

Or were I in the wildest waste,

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. The desert were a paradise,

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. Or were I monarch o' the globe,

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign, The brightest jewel in my crown

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 1»

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to the windy quarter « shelter




Dear native regions, I foretell,
From what I feel at this farewell,
That, wheresoe'er my steps may tend,
Anil whensoe'er my course shall end,
If in that hour a single tie
Survive of local sympathy,
My soul will cast the backward view,
The longing look alone on you.

Thus, while the Sun sinks down to rest
Far in the regions of the west,
Though to the vale no parting beam
Be given, not one memorial gleam,
A lingering light he fondly throws
On the dear hills where first he rose.


—A simple Child,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every Hmb,
What should it know of death t

I met a little cottage Girl:
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

•Wordsworth thought It worth while to print this "extract from the conclusion of a poem" which was written, at the age of sixteen. Just before he left his school at Hawkshead. It both reveals his strong local attachment and anticipates his reliance upon what became for him a chief source of poetic inspiration, namely, "emotion recollected In tranquillity."

fThls, and the two poems that follow It, were among those contributed by Wordsworth to the Joint volume of Lyrical Baltailx which he and Coleridge published In 1708 (see p. 428: also Enif. Lit., pp. 232-235). This poem was written to show "the obscurity and perplexity which In childhood attend our notion of death, or rather our utter Inability to admit that notion."

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad:
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
—Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you bef"

'' How many t Seven in all,'' she said

And wondering looked at me. 16

"And where are they? I pray you tell."
She answered, '' Seven are we;
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

'' Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother." 24

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.
Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be.''

Then did the little Maid reply,

'' Seven boys and girls are we;

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree." 32

"You run about, my little Maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,

'' Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. 40

"My stockings there I often knit,
My kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit,
And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset. Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there. 48

"The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

"So in the chureh-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I. 56

"And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,

"If they two are in heavent"

Quick was the little Maid's reply,

'' O Master! we are seven.'' 64

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"


I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did Nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it grieved my heart to think

What man has made of man. 8

Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopped and played,

Their thoughts I cannot measure: —

But the least motion which they made

It seemed a thrill of pleasure. 16

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.

• This Is one of the earliest and most definite expressions of Wordsworth's faith In the essential oneness of man and nature, and of Ills sorrow over man's apostasy from that faith.

If this belief from heaven be sent,

If such be Nature's holy plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of mant 24


Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-

With a soft inland murmur.J—Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
The day is come when I again repose
Here, under this dark sycamore, and view 10
These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits.
Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
With some uncertain notice, as might seem
Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, 20
Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms,
Through a long absence, have not been to me
As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
And passing even into my purer mind,

t Note by Wordsworth: "I have not ventured to call this poem an Ode: but It was written with a hope thut In the transitions, and the impassioned music of the versification, would be found the principal requisites of that species of composition." Professor Dowden remarks upon the four stages of the poet's growth to be found described in the poem: l<'irst. animal enjoyment of nature in boyhood; second, passion for beauty and sublimity: third, perception of nature's tranquillizing and elevating influence on the spirit: and fourth, deep communion with a spiritual presence: stages which he further describes as the periods of the blood, of the senses, of the imagination, and of the soul.

t For the effect of the tides on the Wye nearer its mouth, see Tennyson's In Mcmnriam, With tranquil restoration:—feelings too 30

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world, 40

Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,—

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft— 5<<
In darkness and amid the many shapes
Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—
How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

0 sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,
And somewhat of a sad perplexity, 60
The picture of the mind revives again:
While here I stand, not only with the sense
Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
That in this moment there is life and food
For future years. And so I dare to hope,
Though changed, no doubt, from what I was
when first

1 came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded o 'er the mountains, by the sides
Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
Wherever nature led: more like a man 70
Flying from something that he dreads, than

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
And their glad animal movements all gone by)
To me was all in all.—I cannot paint
What then I was. The sounding cataract
Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood.
Their colours and their forms, were then to me
An appetite; a feeling and a love, 80
That had no need of a remoter charm,
By thought supplied, nor any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,
And all its aching joys are now no more,
And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts
Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
Abundant recompense. For I have learned
To look on nature, not as in the hour
Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes
The still, sad music of humanity, 91
Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
A presence that disturbs me with the joy
Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
Of something far more deeply interfused,
Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
And the round ocean and the living air,
And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
A motion and a spirit, that impels 100
All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
And rolls through all things. Therefore am I

A lover of the meadows and the woods,
And mountains; and of all that we behold
From this green earth; of all the mighty world
Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,
And what perceive; well pleased to recognize
In nature and the language of the sense,
The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul
Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance, HI
If I were not thus taught, should I the more
Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the Bhooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once, 120
My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
Knowing that Nature never did betray
The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
Through all the years of this our life, to lead
From joy to joy: for she can so inform i
The mind that is within us, so impress
With quietness and beauty, and so feed
With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues.
Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all 130
The dreary intercourse of daily life,
Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
Ts full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
And let the misty mountain-winds be free
To blow against thee: and, in after years,
l give form to, animate

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms, HO
Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
For all sweet sounds aud harmonies; oh I then,
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these

Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream 150
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy


Strange fits of passion have I known:
And 1 will dare to tell,
But in the Lover's ear alone,
What once to me befell.

When she I loved looked every day

Fresh as a rose in June,

T to her cottage bent my way

Beneath an evening-moon. 8

Upon the moon I fixed my eye,
All over the wide lea;

With quickening pace my horse drew nigb
Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reached the orchard-plot;

And, as wo climbed the hill,

The sinking moon to Lucy's cot

Came near, and nearer still. 16

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,
Kind Nature's gentlest boon!

•This little group of five poems upon an unknown and perhaps imaginary Lucy were written in Germany In the year 1700. Without titles or notes, or any ornament beyond two or three of the simplest figures, they convey nbsolutely their contained emotion, illustrating that poetry which, In moments ot deepest feeling, Is the natural language of man. The fifth poem appears to sum up the preceding four; in Its two brief stanzas it presents the two opposing and inscrutable mysteries ot life and death, and leaves tbem to the Imagination, without further comment.

And all the while my eyes I kept
On the descending moon.

My horse moved on; hoof after hoof

He raised, and never stopped:

When down behind the cottage roof,

At once, the bright moon dropped. 21

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a Lover's head!

"O mercy! " to myself I cried,

'' If Lucy should be dead!''


She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,1
A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye! —Fair as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky. S

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,

The difference to me!

I travelled among unknown men,

In lands beyond the sea;
Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, that melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy shore
A second time; for still I seeni

To love thee more and more. 8

Among thy mountains did I feel

The joy of my desire;
And she I cherished turned her wheel

Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed The bowers where Lucy played;

And thine too is the last green field

That Lucy's eyes surveyed. 1«


Three years she grew in sun and shower,
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This Child I to myself will take;

l The name of several streams In England: one has been made famous by Izaak Walton, the angler.

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