His colour sicken'd more and more, He faded into age; And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They took a weapon long and sharp, Like a rogue for forgery. They laid him down upon his back, They fill'd up then a darksome pit. And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted o'er a scorching flame But the miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they have taken his very heart's blood, THE WOODLAND HALLO. IN our cottage, that peeps from the skirts of the wood, I am mistress, no mother have I; Yet blithe are my days, for my father is good, And kind is my lover, hard by: They both work together beneath the green shade, Both woodmen, my father and Joe; Where I've listen'd whole hours to the echo that made So much of a laugh or-Hallo! From my basket at noon they expect their supply, And with joy from my threshold I spring; For the woodlands I love, and the oaks waving high, And Echo that sings as I sing. Though deep shades delight me, yet love is my food, As I call the dear name of my Joe; His musical shout is the pride of the wood, And my heart leaps to hear the-Hallo! Simple flowers of the grove, little birds, live at ease, I wish not to wander from you; I'll still dwell beneath the deep roar of your trees, |