THE SHEPHERD

HOW sweet is the Shepherd's sweet lot!
From the morn to the evening he strays;
He shall follow his sheep all the day,
And his tongue shall be filled with praise.

For he hears the lamb's innocent call,
And he hears the ewe's tender reply;
He is watchful while they are in peace,
For they know when their Shepherd is nigh.
William Blake

THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER

WHEN my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, ''Weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!'
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

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,
And he open'd the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,
He'd have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Tho' the morning was cold, Tom was happy and

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;
The merry bells ring

To welcome the Spring;
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around

To the bells' cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the Echoing Green.

Old John, with white hair,
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
'Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth-time were seen
On the Echoing Green.'

Till the little ones, weary,
No more can be merry;

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!
Now it's mute.
Birds delight,
Day and night;
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in sky,

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;
And lived upon the moors,

Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
And her house was out of doors.
Her apples were swart blackberries,
Her currants, pods o' broom;

Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her brothers were the craggy hills,
Her sisters larchen trees;

Alone with her great family

She lived as she did please.
No breakfast had she many a morn,
No dinner many a noon,

And, 'stead of supper, she would stare
Full hard against the moon.

But every morn, of woodbine fresh
She made her garlanding,

And, every night, the dark glen yew
She wove, and she would sing.
And with her fingers, old and brown,

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