See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter is my true-love's shroud; Whiter than the morning sky, Whiter than the evening cloud. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Here, upon my true-love's grave, Shall the garish flowers be laid, Nor one holy saint to save All the sorrows of a maid. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. With my hands I'll bind the briers, Round his holy corse to gre; Elfin-fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Come with acorn cup and thorn, Drain my heart's blood all away; Life and all its good I scorn, Dance by night, or feast by day, My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow-tree. Water-witches, crowned with reytes, Bear me to your deadly tide. I die--I come--my true-love waits. Thus the damsel spake, and died. THE PIPER WILLIAM BLAKE Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee, On a cloud I saw a child, And he, laughing, said to me, 'Pipe a song about a lamb,' So I piped with merry cheer; 'Piper, pipe that song again,' So I piped: he wept to hear. 'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe, Sing thy songs of happy cheer.' So I sang the same again, While he wept with joy to hear. 'Piper, sit thee down and write In a book that all may read.' So he vanish'd from my sight: And I pluck'd a hollow reed, And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear, And I wrote my happy songs Every child may joy to hear. THE TIGER Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forest of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the ardour of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire-- What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder, and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand form'd thy dread feet? What the hammer, what the chain, In what furnace was thy brain? Did God smile his work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? SCOTS WHA HAE ROBERT BURNS Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; Welcome to your gory bed, Or to victorie! Now's the day, and now's the hour; See the front of battle lour; See approach proud Edward's power-- Chains and slaverie! Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave? Wha sae base as be a slave? Let him turn and flee! Wha for Scotland's King and Law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or free-man fa'? Let him follow me! By Oppression's woes and pains! By your sons in servile chains! We will drain our dearest veins, But they shall be free!