"Set nine stones by the wall for twain, Red rose leaves will never make wine; For the bed I take will measure ten, The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne. "Tread twelve girl's paces out for three, Red rose leaves will never make wine; For the pit I made has taken me, The ways are sair fra' the Till to the Tyne." ----A. C. Swinburne. [Illustration: 0072] THE KINGS DAUGHTER |We were ten maidens in the green corn, Small red leaves in the mill-water: Fairer maidens never were born, Apples of gold for the king's daughter. We were ten maidens by a well-head, Small white birds in the mill-water: Sweeter maidens never were wed, Rings of red for the king's daughter. The first to spin, the second to sing, Seeds of wheat in the mill-water; The third may was a goodly thing, White bread and brown for the king's daughter. The fourth to sew and the fifth to play, Fair green weed in the mill-water; The sixth may was a goodly may, White wine and red for the king's daughter. The seventh to woo, the eighth to wed, Fair thin reeds in the mill-water; The ninth had gold work on her head, Honey in the comb for the king's daughter. The ninth had gold work round her hair, Fallen flowers in the mill-water; The tenth may was goodly and fair, Golden gloves for the king's daughter. We were ten maidens in a field green, Fallen fruit in the mill-water; Fairer maidens never had been, Golden sleeves for the king's daughter. By there comes the king's young son, A little wind in the mill-water; "Out of ten maidens ye'll grant me one," A crown of red for the king's daughter. "Out of ten mays ye'll give me the best," A little rain in the mill-water; A bed of yellow straw for all the rest, A bed of gold for the king's daughter. He's ta'en out the goodliest, Rain that rains in the mill-water; A comb of yellow shell for all the rest, A comb of gold for the king's daughter. He's made her bed to the goodliest, Wind and hail in the mill-water; A grass girdle for all the rest, A girdle of arms for the king's daughter. He's set his heart to the goodliest, Snow that snows in the mill-water; Nine little kisses for all the rest, An hundredfold for the king's daughter. He's ta'en his leave at the goodliest, Broken boats in the mill-water; Golden gifts for all the rest, Sorrow of heart for the king's daughter. "Ye'll make a grave for my fair body," Running rain in the mill-water; "And ye'll streek my brother at the side of me," The pains of hell for the king's daughter. ----A. C. Swinburne. THE BALLAD OF THE MIDNIGHT SUN 1883. PART I. |The still white coast at Midsummer, Beside the still white sea, Lay low and smooth and shining In this year eighty-three; The sun was in the very North, Strange to see.