I hear the sound of flails

Far off, from the threshing-floors In barns, with their open doors, And the wind, the wind in my sails, Louder and louder roars.

I stand here in my place

With my foot on the rock below, And whichever way it may blow, I meet it face to face

As a brave man meets his foe.

And while we wrestle and strive,
My master, the miller, stands
And feeds me with his hands;
For he knows who makes him thrive,
Who makes him lord of lands.

On Sundays I take my rest;
Church-going bells begin
Their low melodious din ;

I cross my arms on my breast,

And all is peace within.

H. W. Longfellow.

The Castle-Builder

IT happened on a summer's day,

A country lass as fresh as May,
Decked in a wholesome russet gown,
Was going to the market town;
So blithe her looks, so simply clean,
You'd take her for a May-day queen ;
Though for her garland, says the tale,
Her head sustained a loaded pail.
As on her way she passed along,
She hummed the fragments of a song;
She did not hum for want of thought—
Quite pleased with what to sale she brought,
She reckoned by her own account,

When all was sold, the whole amount.
Thus she "In time this little ware
May turn to great account, with care:
My milk being sold for-so and so,
I'll buy some eggs as markets go,
And set them ;-at the time I fix,
These eggs will bring as many chicks;
I'll spare no pains to feed them well;
They'll bring vast profit when they sell.
With this, I'll buy a little pig,
And when 'tis grown up fat and big,
I'll sell it, whether boar or sow,
And with the money buy a cow:

This cow will surely have a calf,

And there the profit's half in half;
Besides there's butter, milk, and cheese,

To keep the market when I please:
All which I'll sell, and buy a farm,

Then shall of sweethearts have a swarm.
Oh! then for ribands, gloves, and rings!
Ay! more than twenty pretty things—
One brings me this, another that,

And I shall have-I know not what!"

Fired with the thought-the sanguine lass !—
Of what was thus to come to pass,

Her heart beat strong; she gave a bound,
And down came milk-pail on the ground:
Eggs, fowls, pig, hog (ah, well-a-day!)
Cow, calf, and farm-all swam away!

La Fontaine (translated).

John Barleycorn

THERE were three kings into the East,
Three kings both great and high,

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they ha'e sworn a solemn oath,
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sickened more and more,

He faded unto age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee; And tied him fast upon the cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim ;

They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe :

And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller us'd him worst of all-
He crush'd him 'tween two stones.

And they ha'e ta'en his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise ;

For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy:
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland.

Robert Burns.