William Blake

“Songs of Innocence”. “Infant Joy”

'I have no name; I am but two days old.' What shall I call thee? 'I happy am, Joy is my name.' Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet Joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee!

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! 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 fire 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? and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the lamb make thee? Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Robert Burns. “To a Louse”

On seeing one on a lady’s bonnet at church

Ha! Where are you going, you crawling wonder? Your impudence protects you sorely, I can not say but you swagger rarely Over gauze and lace, Though faith! I fear you dine but sparingly On such a place You ugly, creeping, blasted wonder, Detested, shunned by saint and sinner, How dare you set your foot upon her - Such fine a lady! Go somewhere else and seek your dinner On some poor body Off! in some beggar's temples squat: There you may creep, and sprawl, and scramble, With other kindred, jumping cattle, In shoals and nations; Where horn nor bone never dare unsettle Your thick plantations Now hold you there! you are out of sight, Below the falderals, snug and tight; No, faith you yet! you will not be right, Until you have got on it --- The very topmost, towering height Of misses bonnet. My sooth! right bold you set your nose out, As plump and gray as any gooseberry: O for some rank, mercurial resin, Or deadly, red powder, I would give you such a hearty dose of it, Would dress your breech! I would not have been surprised to spy You on an old wife's flannel cap: Or maybe some small ragged boy, On his undervest; But Miss's fine balloon bonnet! fye! How dare you do it. O Jenny do not toss your head, And set your beauties all abroad! You little know what cursed speed The blastie's making! Those winks and finger-ends, I dread, Are notice takiing! O would some Power the gift to give us To see ourselves as others see us! It would from many a blunder free us, And foolish notion: What airs in dress and gait would leave us, And even devotion!

George Byron “Childe Harold’s Pilgramage”

Canto the First

I

Oh, thou! in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth,

Muse! form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will!

Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth,

Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill:

Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill;

Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long deserted shrine,

Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still;

Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine

To grace so plain a tale -- this lowly lay of mine.

II

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 10

Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight;

But spent his days in riot most uncouth,

And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of Night.

Oh, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight,

Sore given to revel and ungodly glee;

Few earthly things found favour in his sight

Save concubines and carnal companie,

And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

III

Childe Harold was he hight: -- but whence his name

And lineage long, it suits me not to say; 20

Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame,

And had been glorious in another day;

But one sad losel soils a name for aye,

However mighty in the olden time;

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay,

Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,

Can blazon evil deeds or consecrate a crime.

V

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run,

Nor made atonement when he did amiss,

Had sigh'd to many though he loved but one,

And that loved one, alas! could ne'er be his. 40

Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss

Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;

Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,

And spoil'd her goodly lands to gild his waste,

Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to taste.

VII

The Childe departed from his father's hall:

It was a vast and venerable pile;

So old, it seemed only not to fall,

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle.

Monastic dome! condemned to uses vile!

Where Superstition once had made her den 60

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and smile;

And monks might deem their time was come agen,

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

XI

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands,

The laughing dames in whom he did delight,

Whose large blue eyes, fair locks and snowy hands,

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite,

And long had fed his youthful appetite:

His goblets brimm'd with every costly wine,

And all that mote to luxury invite,

Without a sigh he left, to cross the brine,

And traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's central line.

1

'Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The Night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 120

And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea

We follow in his flight;

Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native Land -- Good Night!

XCVIII

What is the worst of woes that wait on age?

What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?

To view each loved one blotted from life's page, 920

And be alone on earth, as I am now.

“Don Juan”

“In the Great World, - which being interpreted

Meaneth the West or worst end of a city,

And about twice two thousand people bred

By no means to be very wise or witty,

But to sit up while others lie in bed,

And look down on the universe with pity, -

Juan, as an inveterate Patrician,

Was well received by persons of condition..”

“But Juan was a bachelor - of arts,

And parts, and hearts: he danced and sung, and had

An air as sentimental as Mozart's

Softest of melodies; and could be sad

Or cheerful, without any 'flaws or starts,'

Just at the proper time; and though a lad,

Had seen the world - which is a curious sight,

And very much unlike what people write.”

“The Jolly Beggars”

tune : Soldier s Joy

I

I am a son of Mars, who have been in many wars,

And show my cuts and scars wherever I come :

This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench

When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum.

Lai de daudle, etc,

Sing hey my braw John Highlandman !

Sing ho my braw John Highlandman !

There 's not a lad in a' the Ian'

Was match for my John Highlandman !

With his philibeg, an' tartan plaid, kilt

An' guid claymore 10 down by his side,

The ladies' hearts he did trepan,

My gallant, braw John Highlandman.

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird tinker

As weel as poor gut-scraper ;

He taks the fiddler by the beard,

An' draws a roosty rapier ;

He swoor by a' was swearing worth

To speet him like a pliver,

Unless he would from that time forth

Relinquish her for ever.

What is title, what is treasure,

What is reputation's care ?