Alexander Pope.
John Anderson
“John Anderson,” by Robert Burns (1759-96). This poem is included to please several teachers.
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John Anderson, my jo, John, When we were first acquent Your locks were like the raven, Your bonnie brow was brent; But now your brow is bald, John, Your locks are like the snow; But blessings on your frosty pow, John Anderson, my jo. John Anderson, my jo, John, We clamb the hill thegither, And mony a canty day, John, We’ve had wi’ ane anither; Now we maun totter down, John, But hand in hand we’ll go, And sleep thegither at the foot, John Anderson, my jo. |
Robert Burns.
The God of Music.
“The God of Music,” by Edith M. Thomas, an Ohio poetess now living. In this sonnet the poetess has touched the power of Wordsworth or Keats and placed herself among the immortals.
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The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. All seasons through his minstrelsy we meet, Breathing by field and covert haunting-sweet From organ-lofts in forests old he pours: A solemn harmony: on leafy floors To smooth autumnal pipes he moves his feet, Or with the tingling plectrum of the sleet In winter keen beats out his thrilling scores. Leave me the reed unplucked beside the stream. And he will stoop and fill it with the breeze; Leave me the viol’s frame in secret trees, Unwrought, and it shall wake a druid theme; Leave me the whispering shell on Nereid shores. The God of Music dwelleth out of doors. |
Edith M. Thomas.