For those who do or don't bestow, The mellow words of song shall flow. Come then, good folks, your plenty share; O give, my prince! and maiden fair, Be bountiful to-day. Sooth, custom bids ye all to throw Whole handfulls to the begging crow; At least give something; say not, No, And we will go our way.—J. A. ST. JOHN. * * * * * CLEOBULUS. (Book viii. § 60, p. 567.) The swallow is come, and with her brings A year with plenty overflowing; Freely its rich gifts bestowing, The loveliest of lovely springs. She is come, she is come, To her sunny home; And white is her breast as a beam of light, But her back and her wings are as black as night. Then bring forth your store, Bring it out to the door, A mass of figs, or a stoop of wine, Cheese, or meal, or what you will, Whate'er it be we'll not take it ill: Even an egg will not come amiss, For the swallow's not nice When she wishes to dine. Come, what shall we have? Say, what shall it be? For we will not go, Though time doth flee, Till thou answerest Yes, or answerest No. But if thou art churlish we'll break down the gate, And thy pretty wife we'll bear away; She is small, and of no great weight. Open, open, then we say. Not old men, but boys are we, And the swallow says, "Open to me."—J. A. ST. JOHN. _The same._ The swallow, the swallow has burst on the sight, He brings us gay seasons of vernal delight; His back it is sable, his belly is white. Can your pantry nought spare, That his palate may please, A fig—or a pear— Or a slice of rich cheese? Mark, he bars all delay: At a word, my friend, say, Is it yes,—is it nay? Do we go?—do we stay?— One gift and we're gone: Refuse, and anon On your gate and your door All our fury we pour. Or our strength shall be tried On your sweet little bride: From her seat we will tear her; From her home we will bear her: She is light, and will ask But small hands to the task.— Let your bounty then lift A small aid to our mirth; And whatever the gift, Let its size speak its worth. The swallow, the swallow Upon you doth wait: An almsman and suppliant He stands at your gate: Set open, set open Your gate and your door; Neither giants nor grey-beards,— We your bounty implore.—MITCHELL. _The same._