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He strack the tapmast wi' his hand,
And he brake that gallant ship in twain,
MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORder.
The Lawlands of Holland
THE Love that I have chosen
I'll therewith be content; The salt sea shall be frozen Before that I repent. Repent it shall I never
Until the day I dee!
But the Lawlands of Holland
My Love he built a bonny ship,
And my Love and his bonny ship
There shall no mantle cross my back,
Shine in my bower mair;
Nor shall I choose another Love
Until the day I dee,
Since the Lawlands of Holland
Have twinn'd my Love and me.
'Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear,
Ye needna sair lament.'
And he's drown'd in the sea.
The Valley of Unrest
Once it smiled a silent dell
Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
In myriad types of the human eye—
And weep above a nameless grave!
The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna
NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
We buried him darkly at dead of night,
No useless coffin enclosed his breast,
Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him ; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,
We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed,
That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
But half of our heavy task was done
When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stoneBut we left him alone with his glory!
St. Swithin's Chair
ON Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.
The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair,
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks ;-
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
Stanzas Written on the Road between Florence and Pisa
OH, talk not to me of a name great in story;
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled?
'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled. Then away with all such from the head that is hoary! What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory!
Oh FAME!-if I e'er took delight in thy praises, 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover,
There chiefly I sought thee, there only I found thee;
THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone Rig,
Beside the Headless Cross,
And they left him lying in his blood,
Upon the moor and moss.
They made a bier of the broken bough,
A lady came to that lonely bower
She tore her ling (long) yellow hair,
She bath'd him in the Lady-Well
And she plaited a garland for his breast,
And a garland for his hair.
They rowed him in a lily sheet,
And bare him to his earth,
(And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they passed the Chapel Garth).
They buried him at (the mirk) midnight,
(When the dew fell cold and still,
When the aspin gray forgot to play,
And the mist clung to the hill).
They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,
By the edge of the Nine-Stone Burn,
And they covered him (o'er with the heather-flower)