The soft wind from the south land… He set his strength to blow, From forests where Adonis bled, And lily flowers a-row: He crossed the straits like stream…

I went to the mill, but the miller… I sat me down, and cried ochone! To think on the days that are past… Of Dickie Macphalion that’s slain… Shoo, shoo, shoolaroo,

Ye wells, ye founts that fall From the steep mountain wall, That fall, and flash, and fleet With silver feet, Ye woods, ye streams that lave

When strawberry pottles are common… Ere elms be black, or limes be ser… When midnight dances are murdering… Then comes in the sweet o’ the yea… And far from Fleet Street, far fr…

We built a castle in the air, In summer weather, you and I, The wind and sun were in your hair… Gold hair against a sapphire sky: When Autumn came, with leaves tha…

Fair islands of the silver fleece, Hoards of unsunned, uncounted gold… Whose havens are the haunts of Pe… Whose boys are in our quarrel bold… OUR bolt is shot, our tale is tol…

In schomer, when the leves spryng, The bloschems on every bowe, So merey doyt the berdys syng Yn wodys merey now. Herkens, god yemen,

The incident is from the Love Sto… The daughter of the Lesbian king Within her bower she watched the w… Far off she heard the arrows ring, The smitten harness ring afar;

Light has flown! Through the grey The wind’s way The sea’s moan Sound alone!

How Œdipous departed, who may tell Save Theseus only? for there neit… The burning bolt of thunder, and t… To blast him into nothing, nor the… Of sea-tide spurred by tempest on…

HAD cigarettes no ashes, And roses ne’er a thorn, No man would be a funker Of whin, or burn, or bunker. There were no need for mashies,

Our youth began with tears and sig… With seeking what we could not fin… Our verses all were threnodies, In elegiacs still we whined; Our ears were deaf, our eyes were…

DARK Lily without blame, Not upon us the shame, Whose sires were to the Auld Alli… They, by the Maiden’s side, Victorious fought and died;

‘O wha will shoe my fu’ fair foot? And wha will glove my hand? And wha will lace my middle jimp, Wi’ the new-made London band? ‘And wha will kaim my yellow hair,

Let others praise analysis And revel in a “cultured” style, And follow the subjective Miss From Boston to the banks of Nile, Rejoice in anti-British bile,