At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning;
Lasses are lonely, and dowie, and wae ;

Nae daffing, nae gabbing, but sighing and sabbing ;
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her awae.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and gray;

At fair, or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching ;
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks, wi' the lasses at bogles to play;
But ilk maid sits dreary, lamenting her dearie—
The Flowers o' the Forest are weded awae.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers o' the Forest, that fought aye the foremost
The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.
We'll hear nae mair lilting, at the ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae :
Sighing and moaning, on ilka green loaning—
The Flowers o' the Forest are a' wede awae.



THE skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere,-
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir,—
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.


Here once, through an alley Titanic

Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul,—
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

1 Partly traditional.

As the scoriac rivers that roll,-
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole,-
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.


Our talk had been serious and sober,

But our thoughts they were palsied and sere,—— Our memories were treacherous and sere ; For we knew not the month was October, And we marked not the night of the year (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) We noted not the dim lake of Auber

(Though once we had journeyed down here), Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.


And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn,-
As the sun-dials hinted of morn,
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn,—
Astartè's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.


And I said, 'She is warmer than Dian :
She rolls through an ether of sighs,-
She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion :
To point us the path to the skies—
To the Lethean peace of the skies;
Come up in despite of the Lion,

To shine on us with her bright eyes;
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes.'


But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

Said Sadly, this star I mistrust-
Her pallor I strangely mistrust –
Oh, hasten !-oh, let us not linger!

Oh, fly let us fly !-for we must.'
In terror she spoke, letting sink her

Wings until they trailed in the dustIn agony sobbed, letting sink her

Plumes till they trailed in the dustTill they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.


I replied "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light;

Let us bathe in this crystalline light :
Its sibyllic splendour is beaming

With hope and in beauty to-night :

See!-it flickers up the sky through the night;

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright-

We safely may trust to a gleaming

That cannot but guide us aright,

Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night.'


Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

And tempted her out of her gloom—
And conquered her scruples and gloom ;

And we passed to the end of a vista,

But were stopped by the door of a tomb,-
By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said, 'What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?'

'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!'


Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

As the leaves that were crisped and sere,

As the leaves that were withering and sere;

And I cried-'It was surely October

On this very night of last year,

That I journeyed-I journeyed down here-
That I brought a dread burden down here!
On this night of all nights in the year;
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
This misty mid region of Weir-

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,—
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.'

Kubla Khan


IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree :
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground


With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills
Where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree ;
And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced :
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail ;
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :

And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw :

It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.

Could I revive within me

Her symphony and song,

To such a deep delight 'twould win me
That with music loud and long,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
And all who heard should see them there
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread
For he on honey-dew hath fed,

And drunk the milk of Paradise.


HENCE, loathed Melancholy,


Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born

In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! Find out some uncouth cell

Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings

And the night-raven sings;

There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks

As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.

But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In heaven yclept Euphrosynè,

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