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The Intellectual Origins of the European Reformation
2nd ed Edition Alister E. Mcgrath Digital Instant
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Author(s): Alister E. McGrath
ISBN(s): 9780631229391, 063122940X
Edition: 2nd ed
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Year: 2004
Language: english
Other documents randomly have
different content
There were three gipsies a-come to my door,
And down-stairs ran this a-lady, O!
One sang high, and another sang low,
And the other sang, Bonny, bonny Biscay, O!

Then she pulled off her silk-finished gown

And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged rags about our door—
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

It was late last night, when my lord came home,

Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on every hand:
"She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"O saddle to me my milk-white steed.

Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

O he rode high and he rode low,

He rode through woods and copses too,
Until he came to an open field,
And there he espied his a-lady, O!

"What makes you leave your house and land?

What makes you leave your money, O?
What makes you leave your new-wedded lord;
To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O?"

"What care I for my house and my land?

What care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new-wedded lord?
I'm off with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

"Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed,

With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
 And to-night you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"
84
"What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O?
For to-night I shall sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!"

WHERE DO THE GIPSIES COME FROM?

 Where do the gipsies come from?
The gipsies come from Egypt.
The fiery sun begot them,
Their dam was the desert dry.
She lay there stripped and basking,
And gave them suck for the asking,
And an Emperor's bone to play with,
Whenever she heard them cry.

What did the gipsies do there?

They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
They built a tomb for Pharaoh,
So tall it touched the sky.
They buried him deep inside it,
Then let what would betide it,
They saddled their lean-ribbed ponies
And left him there to die.

What do the gipsies do now?

They follow the Sun, their father,
They follow the Sun, their father,
They know not whither nor why.
Whatever they find they take it,
And if it's a law they break it.
So never you talk to a gipsy,
Or look in a gipsy's eye.
H. H. Bashford

85
BEGGARS
 What noise of viols is so sweet
As when our merry clappers ring?
What mirth doth want when beggars meet?
A beggar's life is for a king.
Eat, drink, and play, sleep when we list,
Go where we will—so stocks be missed.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.

The world is ours, and ours alone;

For we alone have world at will.
We purchase not—all is our own;
Both fields and street we beggars fill.
Bright shines the sun; play, beggars, play!
Here's scraps enough to serve to-day.
Frank Davidson

86
"WEEP, WEEP, YE WOODMEN!"
 Weep, weep, ye woodmen! wail;
Your hands with sorrow wring!
Your master Robin Hood lies dead,
Therefore sigh as you sing.

Here lie his primer and his beads,

His bent bow and his arrows keen,
His good sword and his holy cross:
Now cast on flowers fresh and green.

And, as they fall, shed tears and say

Well, well-a-day! well, well-a-day!
Thus cast ye flowers fresh, and sing,
And on to Wakefield take your way.
Anthony Munday

87
MY HANDSOME GILDEROY
Gilderoy was a bonnie boy,
Had roses tull[62] his shoone,
His stockings were of silken soy,
Wi' garters hanging doune:
It was, I weene, a comelie sight,
To see sae trim a boy;
He was my joy and heart's delight,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! sike twe[63] charming een he had,

A breath as sweet as rose;
He never ware a Highland plaid,
But costly silken clothes.
He gained the luve of ladies gay,
Nane eir tull him was coy,
Ah! wae is mee! I mourn the day,
For my dear Gilderoy.

My Gilderoy and I were born

Baith in one toun together;
We scant[64] were seven years beforn
We gan to luve each other;
Our daddies and our mammies thay
Were fill'd wi' mickle joy,
To think upon the bridal day
'Twixt me and Gilderoy.

For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,

Gude faith! I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I received with joy,
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.
Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time
Among the leaves sae green:
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he still had been content

Wi' me to lead his life;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife.
And he in many a venturous deed
His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars[65] mine heart to bleed
For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,

The tears they wet mine ee;
I gave tull him a parting luik,
"My benison gang wi' thee!
God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;
My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy!"

My Gilderoy, baith far and near,

Was feared in ev'ry toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland loun:
Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;
At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,
To 'reave of life for ox or ass,
For sheep, or horse, or mare:
Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy;
Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff[66] Gilderoy had done amisse,

He mought hae banisht been,
Ah, what fair cruelty is this,
To hang sike handsome men!
To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;
Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,

They bound him mickle strong,
Tull Edenburrow they led him thair,
And on a gallows hung:
They hung him high aboon the rest,
He was so trim a boy:
Thair dyed the youth whom I lued best,
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,

I bare his corpse away;
Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comely clay;
And siker[67] in a grave sae deep
I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.
BEASTS OF THE FIELD FOWLS OF THE
AIR.
88
BINGO

The miller's mill-dog lay at the mill-door,

And his name was Little Bingo.
B with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And his name was Little Bingo.

The miller he bought a cask of ale,

And he called it right good Stingo.
S with a T, T with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he called it right good Stingo.

The miller he went to town one day,

And he bought a wedding Ring-o!
R with an I, I with an N, N with a G, G with an O,
And he bought a wedding Ring-o!

89
THE IRISH HARPER AND HIS DOG
 On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh,
No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I;
No harp like my own could so cheerily play,
And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to part,

She said—while the sorrow was big at her heart—
"Oh! remember your Sheelah, when far, far away,
And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray."

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure,

And he constantly loved me, although I was poor;
When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless away,
I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of grey,
And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered his case,

Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day,
And I played a lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?

Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never return with my poor dog Tray.
Thomas Campbell

90
POOR OLD HORSE
 My clothing was once of the linsey woolsey fine,
My tail it grew at length, my coat did likewise shine;
But now I'm growing old; my beauty does decay,
My master frowns upon me; one day I heard him say,
Poor old horse: poor old horse.

Once I was kept in the stable snug and warm,

To keep my tender limbs from any cold or harm;
But now, in open fields, I am forced for to go,
In all sorts of weather, let it be hail, rain, freeze, or snow.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.

Once I was fed on the very best corn and hay

That ever grew in yon fields, or in yon meadows gay;
But now there's no such doing can I find at all,
I'm glad to pick the green sprouts that grow behind yon wall.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.

"You are old, you are cold, you are deaf, dull, dumb and slow,
You are not fit for anything, or in my team to draw.
You have eaten all my hay, you have spoiled all my straw,
So hang him, whip, stick him, to the huntsman let him go."
Poor old horse: poor old horse.

My hide unto the tanners then I would freely give,

My body to the hound dogs, I would rather die than live,
Likewise my poor old bones that have carried you many a mile,
Over hedges, ditches, brooks, bridges, likewise gates and stiles.
Poor old horse: poor old horse.

91
AY ME, ALAS, HEIGH HO!
 Ay me, alas, heigh ho, heigh ho!
Thus doth Messalina go
Up and down the house a-crying,
For her monkey lies a-dying.
Death, thou art too cruel
To bereave her of her jewel,
Or to make a seizure
Of her only treasure.
If her monkey die,
She will sit and cry,
Fie fie fie fie fie!

92
THE FLY
Once musing as I sat,
And candle burning by,
When all were hushed, I might discern
A simple, sely fly;
That flew before mine eyes,
With free rejoicing heart,
And here and there with wings did play,
As void of pain and smart.
Sometime by me she sat
When she had played her fill;
And ever when she rested had
About she fluttered still.
When I perceived her well
Rejoicing in her place,
"O happy fly!" (quoth I), and eke
O worm in happy case!
Which of us two is best?
I that have reason? No:
But thou that reason art without,
And therefore void of woe.
I live, and so dost thou:
But I live all in pain,
And subject am to one, alas!
That makes my grief her gain.
Thou livest, but feel'st no grief;
No love doth thee torment.
A happy thing for me it were
(If God were so content)
That thou with pen were placèd here,
And I sat in thy place:
Then I should joy as thou dost now,
And thou should'st wail thy case.
Barnabe Googe
93
BÊTE HUMAINE

Riding through Ruwu swamp, about sunrise,

I saw the world awake; and as the ray
Touched the tall grasses where they sleeping lay,
Lo, the bright air alive with dragonflies:
With brittle wings aquiver, and great eyes
Piloting crimson bodies, slender and gay.
I aimed at one, and struck it, and it lay
Broken and lifeless, with fast-fading dyes ...
Then my soul sickened with a sudden pain
And horror, at my own careless cruelty,
That in an idle moment I had slain
A creature whose sweet life it is to fly:
Like beasts that prey with tooth and claw ...
Nay, they
Must slay to live, but what excuse had I?
Francis Brett Young

94
THE LAMB
 Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed,
By the stream, and o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, woolly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little Lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee,

Little Lamb, I'll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a Lamb.
He is meek, and He is mild;
He became a little child.
I a child, and thou a lamb,
We are callèd by His name.
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
Little Lamb, God bless thee!
William Blake

95
THE SALE OF THE PET LAMB
Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain....

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,

Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,
That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their
knee;
That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.

But want, even as an armèd man, came down upon their shed,
The father laboured all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them
bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,

Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with downdrooping head
Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed;
And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring,

But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see,

Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously:
"Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair
Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair;
I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."
Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down,
96
With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown,
And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow,
From every thing about the house a mournful thought did borrow;
The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing, 'tis full of grief and pain;

It keepeth down the soul of man, as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.
Mary Howitt

A CHILD'S PET
 When I sailed out of Baltimore
With twice a thousand head of sheep,
They would not eat, they would not drink,
But bleated o'er the deep.

Inside the pens we crawled each day,

To sort the living from the dead;
And when we reached the Mersey's mouth,
Had lost five hundred head.

Yet every night and day one sheep,

That had no fear of man or sea,
Stuck through the bars its pleading face,
And it was stroked by me.

And to the sheep-men standing near,

"You see," I said, "this one tame sheep:
It seems a child has lost her pet,
And cried herself to sleep."

So every time we passed it by,

Sailing to England's slaughter-house,
Eight ragged sheep-men—tramps and thieves—
Would stroke that sheep's black nose.
William H. Davies

97
THE SNARE
 I hear a sudden cry of pain!
There is a rabbit in a snare:
Now I hear the cry again,
But I cannot tell from where.

But I cannot tell from where

He is calling out for aid;
Crying on the frightened air,
Making everything afraid.

Making everything afraid,

Wrinkling up his little face,
As he cries again for aid;
And I cannot find the place!

And I cannot find the place

Where his paw is in the snare:
Little one! Oh, little one!
I am searching everywhere.
James Stephens

98
THE MONK AND HIS PET CAT
I and my white Pangur
Have each his special art:
His mind is set on hunting mice,
Mine is upon my special craft.

I love to rest—better than any fame!—

With close study at my little book;
White Pangur does not envy me:
He loves his childish play.

When in our house we two are all alone—

A tale without tedium!
We have—sport never-ending!
Something to exercise our wit.

At times by feats of derring-do

A mouse sticks in his net,
While into my net there drops
A difficult problem of hard meaning.

He points his full shining eye

Against the fence of the wall:
I point my clear though feeble eye
Against the keenness of science.

He rejoices with quick leaps

When in his sharp claw sticks a mouse:
I too rejoice when I have grasped
A problem difficult and dearly loved.

Though we are thus at all times,

Neither hinders the other,
Each of us pleased with his own art
Amuses himself alone.

He is a master of the work

Which every day he does:
 While I am at my own work
To bring difficulty to clearness.

99
THE TYGER
 Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests 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?
William Blake

10
0
THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN
 The wanton Troopers riding by
Have shot my Fawn, and it will dye.
Ungentlemen! they cannot thrive
Who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any Harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy Death yet do them any Good ...
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game; it seemed to bless
Itself in me; how could I less
Than love it? O, I cannot be
Unkind to a beast that loveth me ...
With sweetest Milk, and Sugar, first
I it at mine own Fingers nurst;
And as it grew, so every Day
It waxed more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a Breath! And oft
I blushed to see its Foot more soft,
And white (shall I say than my Hand?)
Nay, any Ladie's of the Land.
It is a wond'rous Thing how fleet
'Twas on those little Silver Feet;
With what a pretty skipping Grace,
It oft would challenge me the Race;
And when 't had left me far away,
'Twould stay, and run again, and stay;
For it was nimbler much than Hindes,
And trod as if on the Four Winds.
I have a Garden of my own,
But so with Roses over-grown,
And Lillies, that you would it guess
To be a little Wilderness;
And all the Spring Time of the Year
It only lovèd to be there.
Among the Beds of Lillies I
Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
 Yet could not, till it self would rise,
10 Find it, although before mine Eyes:
1 For, in the flaxen Lillies' Shade,
It like a Bank of Lillies laid.
Upon the Roses it would feed,
Until its Lips ev'n seemed to bleed;
And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those Roses on my Lip.
But all its chief Delight was still
On Roses thus itself to fill,
And its pure Virgin Limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of Lillies cold:
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lillies without, Roses within....
Andrew Marvell

OF ALL THE BIRDS

Of all the birds that I do know,
Philip my sparrow hath no peer;
For sit she high, or sit she low,
Be she far off, or be she near,
There is no bird so fair, so fine,
Nor yet so fresh as this of mine;
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.

Come in a morning merrily

When Philip hath been lately fed;
Or in an evening soberly
When Philip list to go to bed;
It is a heaven to hear my Phipp,
How she can chirp with merry lip,
For when she once hath felt a fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.

She never wanders far abroad,

But is at home when I do call.
If I command she lays on load[68]
With lips, with teeth, with tongue and all.
She chants, she chirps, she makes such cheer,
That I believe she hath no peer.
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.

And yet besides all this good sport

My Philip can both sing and dance,
With new found toys of sundry sort
My Philip can both prick and prance.
And if you say but: Fend cut,[69] Phipp!
Lord, how the peat[70] will turn and skip!
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.
 And to tell truth he were to blame—
10
Having so fine a bird as she,
2 To make him all this goodly game
Without suspect or jealousy—
He were a churl and knew no good,
Would see her faint for lack of food,
For when she once hath felt the fit,
Philip will cry still: Yet, yet, yet.

THE DEAD SPARROW

Tell me not of joy: there's none,
Now my little Sparrow's gone:
He, just as you,
Would try and woo,
He would chirp and flatter me;
He would hang the wing awhile—
Till at length he saw me smile
Lord, how sullen he would be!

He would catch a crumb, and then

Sporting, let it go agen;
He from my lip
Would moisture sip;
He would from my trencher feed;
Then would hop, and then would run,
And cry Philip when he'd done.
O! whose heart can choose but bleed?

O how eager would he fight,

And ne'er hurt, though he did bite.
No morn did pass,
But on my glass
He would sit, and mark and do
What I did—now ruffle all
His feathers o'er, now let'em fall;
And then straightway sleek them too.

Whence will Cupid get his darts

Feathered now to pierce our hearts?
A wound he may
Not, Love, convey,
Now this faithful bird is gone;
O let mournful turtles join
With loving red-breasts, and combine
To sing dirges o'er his stone!
William Cartwright
10
3
ON A LITTLE BIRD

Here lies a little bird.

Once all day long
In Martha's house was heard
His rippling song.

Tread lightly where he lies

Beneath this stone
With nerveless wings, closed eyes,
And sweet voice gone.
Martin Armstrong

10
4
ADLESTROP
 Yes. I remember Adlestrop—
The name, because one afternoon
Of heat the express-train drew up there
Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came
On the bare platform. What I saw
Was Adlestrop—only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,
No whit less still and lonely fair
Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,
Farther and farther, all the birds
Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.
Edward Thomas

10
5
THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
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