"Some rogue," quoth the friar, "quite dead to remorse,

Some thief, whom a halter will throttle,

Some scoundrel has cut off the head of my horse,

While I was enagged at the bottle,

Which went gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug."

The tail of the steed pointed south on the dale,
'Twas the friar's road home, straight and level;
But, when spurred, a horse follows his nose, not his tail,
So he scampered due north, like a devil:

"This new mode of docking," the friar then said,
"I perceive doesn't make a horse trot ill;

And 'tis cheap,-for he never can eat off his head
While I am engaged at the bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug."

The steed made a stop,-in a pond he had got,

He was rather for drinking than grazing;

Quoth the friar, “Tis strange headless horses should trot,
But to drink with their tails is amazing!"

Turning round to see whence this phenomenon rose,
In the pond fell this son of a pottle;

Quoth he, "The head's found, for I'm under his nose,→
I wish I were over a bottle,

Which goes gluggity, gluggity-glug-glug-glug!"
George Colman the Younger [1762-1836]

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

THE Laird o' Cockpen, he's proud and he's great;
His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State;
He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep;
But favor wi' wooin' was fashous to seek.

Doun by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,
At his table-head he thought she'd look well,-
M'Clish's ae daughter o' Claverse-ha' Lee,
A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was well-pouthered, as guid as when new,
His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword, and cocked hat,-
And wha could refuse the Laird wi' a' that!

He took the gray mare, and rade cannily,
And rapped at the yett o' Claverse-ha' Lee;
"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,—
She's wanted to speak wi' the Laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean she was makin' the elder-flower wine.
"And what brings the Laird at sic a like time?"
She put aff her apron, and on her silk goun,
Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' doun.

And when she cam' ben, he bowed fu' low;
And what was his errand he soon let her know.
Amazed was the Laird when the lady said, "Na,"
And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa',

Dumfoundered he was, but nae sigh did he gi'e;
He mounted his mare, and rade cannily;
And aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,
"She's daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen!"

And now that the Laird his exit had made,
Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;
"Oh, for ane I'll get better, it's waur I'll get ten,—
I was daft to refuse the Laird o' Cockpen."

Neist time that the Laird and the Lady were seen,
They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;
Now she sits in the ha' like a weel-tappit hen,
But as yet there's nae chickens appeared at Cockpen.
The first seven stanzas by Carolina Nairne [1766–1845]
The last two by Susan Ferrier [1782-1854]

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

A WELL there is in the west country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,

And behind doth an ash-tree grow, And a willow from the bank above Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne;
Joyfully he drew nigh;

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank,

Under the willow-tree.

There came a man from the house hard by,

At the Well to fill his pail,

On the Well-side he rested it,

And bade the Stranger hail.

"Now, art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he,
"For, an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day
That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast, Ever here in Cornwall been?

For, an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drunk of the Well of St. Keyne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here," The Stranger he made reply;

"But that my draught should be better for that, I pray you answer me why."

"St. Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time Drank of this crystal Well;

And, before the angel summoned her,

She laid on the water a spell,

"If the Husband, of this gifted Well
Shall drink before his Wife,
A happy man henceforth is he,

For he shall be Master for life;—

"But, if the Wife should drink of it first,
Heaven help the Husband then!”—

The Stranger stooped to the Well of St. Keyne,
And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes?"

He to the Cornish-man said;

But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake, And sheepishly shook his head:

"I hastened, as soon as the wedding was done, And left my Wife in the porch;

But i' faith, she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to church."

Robert Southey [1774-1843]

ADDRESS TO A MUMMY

AND thou hast walked about (how strange a story!)
In Thebes's streets three thousand years ago,
When the Memnonium was in all its glory,
And time had not begun to overthrow

Those temples, palaces, and piles stupendous
Of which the very ruins are tremendous.

Speak! for thou long enough hast acted dummy.
Thou hast a tongue,―come, let us hear its tune;
Thou'rt standing on thy legs, above ground, mummy!
Revisiting the glimpses of the moon,-

Not like thin ghosts or disembodied creatures,

But with thy bones and flesh, and limbs and features.

Tell us for doubtless thou canst recollect

To whom should we assign the Sphinx's fame?

Was Cheops or Cephrenes architect

Of either pyramid that bears his name?

Is Pompey's Pillar really a misnomer?

Had Thebes a hundred gates, as sung by Homer?

Perhaps thou wert a Mason, and forbidden
By oath to tell the secrets of thy trade,―
Then say what secret melody was hidden
In Memnon's statue, which at sunrise played?
Perhaps thou wert a Priest,-if so, my struggles
Are vain, for priestcraft never owns its juggles.

Perhaps that very hand, now pinioned flat,
Has hob-a-nobbed with Pharaoh, glass to glass;
Or dropped a halfpenny in Homer's hat;
Or doffed thine own to let Queen Dido pass;
Or held, by Solomon's own invitation,
A torch at the great temple's dedication.

I need not ask thee if that hand, when armed,
Has
any Roman soldier mauled and knuckled;
For thou wert dead and buried and embalmed
Ere Romulus and Remus had been suckled:
Antiquity appears to have begun

Long after thy primeval race was run.

Thou couldst develop-if that withered tongue
Might tell us what those sightless orbs have seen―
How the world looked when it was fresh and young,
And the great deluge still had left it green;
Or was it then so old that history's pages
Contained no record of its early ages?

Still silent! incommunicative elf!

Art sworn to secrecy? then keep thy vows;
But prithee tell us something of thyself,-

Reveal the secrets of thy prison-house;

Since in the world of spirits thou hast slumbered,

What hast thou seen, what strange adventures numbered?

Since first thy form was in this box extended,

We have, above ground, seen some strange mutations:

The Roman empire has begun and ended,

New worlds have risen, we have lost old nations;