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The Demon Lover
'O WHERE have you been, my long, long love, This long seven years and mair?'
'O I'm come to seek my former vows Ye granted me before.'
'O hold your tongue of your former vows,
O hold your tongue of your former vows,
He turned him right and round about,
'I wad never hae trodden on Irish ground
'I might hae had a king's daughter,
I might have had a king's daughter,
'If ye might have had a king's daughter,
Ye might have taken the king's daughter,
'O faulse are the vows o' womankind,
I never wad hae trodden on Irish ground,
'If I was to leave my husband dear,
O what have you to take me to,
'I hae seven ships upon the sea,
She has taken up her two little babes,
She set her foot upon the ship,
No mariners could she behold; But the sails were o' the taffetie
And the masts o' the beaten gold.
She had not sailed a league, a league,
The masts, that were like the beaten gold,
They had not sailed a league, a league,
O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he,
I will show you how the lilies grow
On the banks of Italy.
O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills,
"O yon are the hills of heaven,' he said,
O whaten a mountain is yon,' she said,
And aye when she turn'd her round about,
Until that the tops o' the gallant ship
Nae taller were than he.
The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud,
And the leven filled her e'e ;
And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites
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;
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,
And he's drown'd in the sea.
The Valley of Unrest
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;
Few and short were the prayers we said,
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 stone But 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.