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He turn'd him right and round about
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore.
The sodger from the wars returns,
Never to meet again,
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,
I think on him that's far awa',
The lee-lang night, and weep.
The Harp that once through Tara's Halls
THE harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory's thrill is o'er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
COULD Love for ever
And Time's endeavour
Be tried in vain---
With this could measure;
And like a treasure
We'd hug the chain.
Ends not in dying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let's love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.
When lovers parted
A few years older,
For whom they sigh!
A Sea Dirge
FULL fathom five thy father lies:
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
But doth suffer a sea-change
Ding, Dong, Bell.
AH! what avails the sceptred race,
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
WHO is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her? Holy, fair and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her That she might admired be.
Is she kind, as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
To help him of his blindness;
Lucy Ashton's Song
LOOK not thou on beauty's charming,—
THE sun upon the lake is low,
Now all whom varied toil and care
The noble dame on turret high,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin's darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart;
And to the thicket wanders slow
The woodlark at his partner's side
Twitters his closing song
All meet whom day and care divide,-
SIR W. SCOTT.
ORPHEUS with his lute made trees,
Everything that heard him play,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
The Twa Corbies
As I was walking all alane
I heard twa corbies making a mane,
'Whar sall we gang and dine the day?'
'In behint yon auld fail' dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
'His hound is to the hunting gane,
'Ye'll sit on his white hause bane,
We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
'Mony a one for him makes mane,
To One in Paradise
THOU wast all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,