You are old, Father William, the young man cried,The few locks that are left you are gray;You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,Now tell me the reason, I pray.In the days of my youth, Father William replied,I remember'd that youth would fly fast,And abused not my health and my vigour at first,That I never might need them at last.You are old, Father William, the young man cried,And pleasures with youth pass away,And yet you lament not the days that are gone,Now tell me the reason, I pray.In the days of my youth, Father William replied,I remember'd that youth could not last;I thought of the future, whatever I did,That I never might grieve for the past.You are old, Father William, the young man cried,And life must be hastening away;You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!Now tell me the reason, I pray.I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied;Let the cause thy attention engage:In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!And He hath not forgotten my age.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,The few locks that are left you are gray;You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man,Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,I remember'd that youth would fly fast,And abused not my health and my vigour at first,That I never might need them at last.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,And pleasures with youth pass away,And yet you lament not the days that are gone,Now tell me the reason, I pray.
In the days of my youth, Father William replied,I remember'd that youth could not last;I thought of the future, whatever I did,That I never might grieve for the past.
You are old, Father William, the young man cried,And life must be hastening away;You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death!Now tell me the reason, I pray.
I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied;Let the cause thy attention engage:In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!And He hath not forgotten my age.
I've seen the smilingOf Fortune beguiling;I've felt all its favours, and found its decay:Sweet was its blessing,Kind its caressing;But now it is fled—it is fled far away.I've seen the forestAdornèd the foremostWith flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay;Sae bonny was their blooming!Their scent the air perfuming!But now they are withered and weeded away.I've seen the morningWith gold the hills adorning,And loud tempest storming before the mid-day,I've seen Tweed's silver streams,Shining in the sunny beams,Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.O fickle Fortune,Why this cruel sporting?Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,Nae mair your frowns can fear me;For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
I've seen the smilingOf Fortune beguiling;I've felt all its favours, and found its decay:Sweet was its blessing,Kind its caressing;But now it is fled—it is fled far away.
I've seen the forestAdornèd the foremostWith flowers of the fairest most pleasant and gay;Sae bonny was their blooming!Their scent the air perfuming!But now they are withered and weeded away.
I've seen the morningWith gold the hills adorning,And loud tempest storming before the mid-day,I've seen Tweed's silver streams,Shining in the sunny beams,Grow drumly and dark as he rowed on his way.
O fickle Fortune,Why this cruel sporting?Oh, why still perplex us, poor sons of a day?Nae mair your smiles can cheer me,Nae mair your frowns can fear me;For the Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of day,The solitary child.No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.'To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.''That, father, will I gladly do!'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon.'At this the father raised his hookAnd snapped a fagot band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down:And many a hill did Lucy climb;But never reached the town.The wretched parents all that night,Went shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from the door.And, turning homeward, now they cried,'In heaven we all shall meet!'—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.Then downward from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall:And then an open field they crossed:The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.They followed from the snowy bankThe footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray;And, when I crossed the wild,I chanced to see at break of day,The solitary child.
No mate, no comrade, Lucy knew;She dwelt on a wide moor,—The sweetest thing that ever grewBeside a human door!
You yet may spy the fawn at play,The hare upon the green;But the sweet face of Lucy GrayWill never more be seen.
'To-night will be a stormy night—You to the town must go;And take a lantern, child, to lightYour mother through the snow.'
'That, father, will I gladly do!'Tis scarcely afternoon—The minster-clock has just struck two,And yonder is the moon.'
At this the father raised his hookAnd snapped a fagot band;He plied his work;—and Lucy tookThe lantern in her hand.
Not blither is the mountain roe:With many a wanton strokeHer feet disperse the powdery snow,That rises up like smoke.
The storm came on before its time:She wandered up and down:And many a hill did Lucy climb;But never reached the town.
The wretched parents all that night,Went shouting far and wide;But there was neither sound nor sightTo serve them for a guide.
At daybreak on a hill they stoodThat overlooked the moor;And thence they saw the bridge of wood,A furlong from the door.
And, turning homeward, now they cried,'In heaven we all shall meet!'—When in the snow the mother spiedThe print of Lucy's feet.
Then downward from the steep hill's edgeThey tracked the footmarks small;And through the broken hawthorn hedge,And by the long stone wall:
And then an open field they crossed:The marks were still the same;They tracked them on, nor ever lost;And to the bridge they came.
They followed from the snowy bankThe footmarks, one by one,Into the middle of the plank;And further there were none!
—Yet some maintain that to this dayShe is a living child;That you may see sweet Lucy GrayUpon the lonesome wild.
O'er rough and smooth she trips along,And never looks behind;And sings a solitary songThat whistles in the wind.
A simple childThat lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—Her beauty made me glad.'Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?''How many? Seven in all,' she said,And wondering looked at me.'And where are they? I pray you tell.'She answered, 'Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.'Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.''You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,Sweet maid, how this may be?'Then did the little maid reply,'Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.''You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laid,Then ye are only five.''Their graves are green, they may be seen,'The little maid replied,'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side.'My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit—I sit and sing to them.'And often after sunset, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.'The first that died was little Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain:And then she went away.'So in the churchyard she was laid;And all the summer dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.'And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.''How many are you, then,' said I,'If they two are in heaven?'The little maiden did reply,'O master! we are seven.''But they are dead: those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!''Twas throwing words away: for stillThe little maid would have her will,And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'
A simple childThat lightly draws its breath,And feels its life in every limb,What should it know of death?
I met a little cottage girl:She was eight years old, she said;Her hair was thick with many a curlThat clustered round her head.
She had a rustic, woodland air,And she was wildly clad;Her eyes were fair, and very fair;—Her beauty made me glad.
'Sisters and brothers, little maid,How many may you be?''How many? Seven in all,' she said,And wondering looked at me.
'And where are they? I pray you tell.'She answered, 'Seven are we;And two of us at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea.
'Two of us in the churchyard lie,My sister and my brother;And, in the churchyard cottage, IDwell near them with my mother.'
'You say that two at Conway dwell,And two are gone to sea,Yet ye are seven!—I pray you tell,Sweet maid, how this may be?'
Then did the little maid reply,'Seven boys and girls are we;Two of us in the churchyard lie,Beneath the churchyard tree.'
'You run about, my little maid,Your limbs they are alive;If two are in the churchyard laid,Then ye are only five.'
'Their graves are green, they may be seen,'The little maid replied,'Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,And they are side by side.
'My stockings there I often knit,My kerchief there I hem;And there upon the ground I sit—I sit and sing to them.
'And often after sunset, Sir,When it is light and fair,I take my little porringer,And eat my supper there.
'The first that died was little Jane;In bed she moaning lay,Till God released her of her pain:And then she went away.
'So in the churchyard she was laid;And all the summer dry,Together round her grave we played,My brother John and I.
'And when the ground was white with snow,And I could run and slide,My brother John was forced to go,And he lies by her side.'
'How many are you, then,' said I,'If they two are in heaven?'The little maiden did reply,'O master! we are seven.'
'But they are dead: those two are dead!Their spirits are in heaven!''Twas throwing words away: for stillThe little maid would have her will,And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh,The difference to me!
She dwelt among the untrodden waysBeside the springs of Dove,A Maid whom there were none to praiseAnd very few to love:
A violet by a mossy stoneHalf hidden from the eye!Fair as a star, when only oneIs shining in the sky.
She lived unknown, and few could knowWhen Lucy ceased to be;But she is in her grave, and oh,The difference to me!
I travell'd among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.'Tis past, the melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd,The bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.
I travell'd among unknown men,In lands beyond the sea;Nor, England! did I know till thenWhat love I bore to thee.
'Tis past, the melancholy dream!Nor will I quit thy shoreA second time; for still I seemTo love thee more and more.
Among thy mountains did I feelThe joy of my desire;And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheelBeside an English fire.
Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd,The bowers where Lucy play'd;And thine too is the last green fieldThat Lucy's eyes survey'd.
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came lateFor a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?''I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide Border his steed was the best,And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none;He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came lateFor a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he entered the Netherby hall,Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word),'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'
'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—And now I am come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'
The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whispered, ''Twere better by farTo have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest,The font, reappearing,From the rain-drops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushing,Waft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and for ever!
He is gone on the mountain,He is lost to the forest,Like a summer-dried fountain,When our need was the sorest,The font, reappearing,From the rain-drops shall borrow,But to us comes no cheering,To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushing,Waft the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,Sage counsel in cumber,Red hand in the foray,How sound is thy slumber!Like the dew on the mountain,Like the foam on the river,Like the bubble on the fountain,Thou art gone, and for ever!
'A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine!A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green,—No more of me you knew,My love!No more of me you knew.'This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snow,Ere we two meet again.'He turned his charger as he spake,Upon the river shore,He gave his bridle-reins a shake,Said 'Adieu for evermore,My love!And adieu for evermore.'
'A weary lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine!A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green,—No more of me you knew,My love!No more of me you knew.
'This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snow,Ere we two meet again.'He turned his charger as he spake,Upon the river shore,He gave his bridle-reins a shake,Said 'Adieu for evermore,My love!And adieu for evermore.'
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.The mere for his net, and the land for his game,The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-dale.Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;Allen-a-dale is no baron or lord,Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil,Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;The mother, she asked of his household and home:'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still;'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.The father was steel, and the mother was stone;They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye,And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning,Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.The mere for his net, and the land for his game,The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;Allen-a-dale is no baron or lord,Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;And the best of our nobles his bonnet will veil,Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;The mother, she asked of his household and home:'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still;'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel, and the mother was stone;They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry:He had laughed on the lass with his bonny black eye,And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Pibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war array,Gentles and Commons!Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one;Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one!Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterred,The bride at the altar.Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges;Come with your fighting-gear,Broadswords and targes.Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended:Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded.Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster;Chief, vassal, page, and groom,Tenant and master.Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plume,Blended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set;Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Knell for the onset!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Pibroch of Donuil,Wake thy wild voice anew,Summon Clan Conuil.Come away, come away,Hark to the summons!Come in your war array,Gentles and Commons!
Come from deep glen, andFrom mountain so rocky;The war-pipe and pennonAre at Inverlochy.Come every hill-plaid, andTrue heart that wears one;Come every steel blade, andStrong hand that bears one!
Leave untended the herd,The flock without shelter;Leave the corpse uninterred,The bride at the altar.Leave the deer, leave the steer,Leave nets and barges;Come with your fighting-gear,Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come, whenForests are rended:Come as the waves come, whenNavies are stranded.Faster come, faster come,Faster and faster;Chief, vassal, page, and groom,Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come;See how they gather!Wide waves the eagle plume,Blended with heather.Cast your plaids, draw your blades,Forward each man set;Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,Knell for the onset!
Love wakes and weepsWhile Beauty sleeps!O for music's softest numbers,To prompt a themeFor Beauty's dream,Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!Through groves of palmSigh gales of balm,Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;While through the gloomComes soft perfume,The distant beds of flowers revealing.O wake and live!No dreams can giveA shadowed bliss, the real excelling;No longer sleep,From lattice peep,And list the tale that Love is telling!
Love wakes and weepsWhile Beauty sleeps!O for music's softest numbers,To prompt a themeFor Beauty's dream,Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!
Through groves of palmSigh gales of balm,Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;While through the gloomComes soft perfume,The distant beds of flowers revealing.
O wake and live!No dreams can giveA shadowed bliss, the real excelling;No longer sleep,From lattice peep,And list the tale that Love is telling!
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the layThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle.'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.'Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my ladye-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall.''Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold—Lie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.And each Saint Clair was buried there,With candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
O listen, listen, ladies gay!No haughty feat of arms I tell;Soft is the note, and sad the layThat mourns the lovely Rosabelle.
'Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!And, gentle ladye, deign to stay!Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.
'The blackening wave is edged with white;To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.
'Last night the gifted Seer did viewA wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?
''Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heirTo-night at Roslin leads the ball,But that my ladye-mother thereSits lonely in her castle-hall.
''Tis not because the ring they ride,And Lindesay at the ring rides well,But that my sire the wine will chideIf 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle.'
—O'er Roslin all that dreary nightA wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,And redder than the bright moonbeam.
It glared on Roslin's castled rock,It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Seem'd all on fire that chapel proudWhere Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,Each Baron, for a sable shroud,Sheathed in his iron panoply.
Seem'd all on fire within, around,Deep sacristy and altar's pale;Shone every pillar foliage-bound,And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.
Blazed battlement and pinnet high,Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—So still they blaze, when fate is nighThe lordly line of high Saint Clair.
There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold—Lie buried within that proud chapelle;Each one the holy vault doth hold—But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle.
And each Saint Clair was buried there,With candle, with book, and with knell;But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sungThe dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.'Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?'—'When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.''Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?'—'The grey-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.'The glow-worm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady.'
Proud Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.
'Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?'—'When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.'
'Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?'—'The grey-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.
'The glow-worm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady.'
A chieftain to the Highlands bound,Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry.''Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter.'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together;For, should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.'His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?'Out spoke the hardy island wight,'I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:—It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:'And by my word, the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So, though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry.'By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o'er her.And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing;Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.For sore dismayed through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,'Across this stormy water;And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh! my daughter!''Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing;The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
A chieftain to the Highlands bound,Cries, 'Boatman, do not tarry!And I'll give thee a silver poundTo row us o'er the ferry.'
'Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,This dark and stormy water?''Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
'And fast before her father's menThree days we've fled together;For, should he find us in the glen,My blood would stain the heather.
'His horsemen hard behind us ride;Should they our steps discover,Then who will cheer my bonny brideWhen they have slain her lover?'
Out spoke the hardy island wight,'I'll go, my chief—I'm ready:—It is not for your silver bright;But for your winsome lady:
'And by my word, the bonny birdIn danger shall not tarry;So, though the waves are raging white,I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
By this the storm grew loud apace,The water-wraith was shrieking;And in the scowl of heaven each faceGrew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,And as the night grew drearer,Adown the glen rode armèd men,Their trampling sounded nearer.
'Oh! haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,'Though tempests round us gather;I'll meet the raging of the skies,But not an angry father.'
The boat has left a stormy land,A stormy sea before her,—When, oh! too strong for human hand,The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roarOf waters fast prevailing;Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed through storm and shade,His child he did discover:One lovely hand she stretched for aid,And one was round her lover.
'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief,'Across this stormy water;And I'll forgive your Highland chief,My daughter!—oh! my daughter!'
'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,Return or aid preventing;The waters wild went o'er his child,And he was left lamenting.
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had loweredAnd the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.'Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn';And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Our bugles sang truce—for the night-cloud had loweredAnd the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky;And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.
Methought from the battlefield's dreadful array,Far, far I had roamed on a desolate track;'Twas autumn—and sunshine arose on the wayTo the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.
I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oftIn life's morning march, when my bosom was young;I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.
Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I sworeFrom my home and my weeping friends never to part;My little ones kissed me a thousand times o'er,And my wife sobbed aloud in her fulness of heart.
'Stay, stay with us—rest, thou art weary and worn';And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;But sorrow returned with the dawning of morn,And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They died to defend me, or live to deplore!Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure?Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion—Erin mavournin!—Erin go bragh!
There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin,The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill:For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairingTo wander alone by the wind-beaten hill.But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion,For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean,Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion,He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.
Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger,The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee;But I have no refuge from famine and danger,A home and a country remain not to me.Never again in the green sunny bowers,Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers,And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!
Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;But alas! in a fair foreign land I awaken,And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace meIn a mansion of peace—where no perils can chase me?Never again shall my brothers embrace me?They died to defend me, or live to deplore!
Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?Oh, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,Why did it doat on a fast fading treasure?Tears like the rain-drop may fall without measure,But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.
Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,One dying wish my lone bosom can draw:Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,Green be thy fields—sweetest isle of the ocean!And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion—Erin mavournin!—Erin go bragh!
Ye mariners of England,That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe;And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave;For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain wave,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn,Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return;Then, then, ye ocean warriors,Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
Ye mariners of England,That guard our native seas;Whose flag has braved a thousand yearsThe battle and the breeze!Your glorious standard launch againTo match another foe;And sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!
The spirits of your fathersShall start from every wave;For the deck it was their field of fame,And Ocean was their grave:Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,Your manly hearts shall glow,As ye sweep through the deep,While the stormy winds do blow;While the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!
Britannia needs no bulwarks,No towers along the steep;Her march is o'er the mountain wave,Her home is on the deep.With thunders from her native oakShe quells the floods below,As they roar on the shore,When the stormy winds do blow;When the battle rages loud and long,And the stormy winds do blow!
The meteor flag of EnglandShall yet terrific burn,Till danger's troubled night depart,And the star of peace return;Then, then, ye ocean warriors,Our song and feast shall flowTo the fame of your name,When the storm has ceased to blow;When the fiery fight is heard no more,And the storm has ceased to blow.
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone:By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold, determined hand;And the prince of all the landLed them on.Like leviathans afloat,Lay their Bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewO'er the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime,As they drifted on their path;There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.But the might of England flushed,To anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rushedO'er the deadly space between.'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feebler cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased, and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail;Or, in conflagration pale,Light the gloom.Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o'er the wave:'Ye are brothers! we are men!And we conquer but to save:So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King.'Then Denmark blessed our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day;While the sun looked smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.Now joy, Old England raise,For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproarLet us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave;While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave.
Of Nelson and the NorthSing the glorious day's renown,When to battle fierce came forthAll the might of Denmark's crown,And her arms along the deep proudly shone:By each gun the lighted brandIn a bold, determined hand;And the prince of all the landLed them on.
Like leviathans afloat,Lay their Bulwarks on the brine,While the sign of battle flewO'er the lofty British line:It was ten of April morn by the chime,As they drifted on their path;There was silence deep as death,And the boldest held his breathFor a time.
But the might of England flushed,To anticipate the scene;And her van the fleeter rushedO'er the deadly space between.'Hearts of oak!' our captains cried; when each gunFrom its adamantine lipsSpread a death-shade round the ships,Like the hurricane eclipseOf the sun.
Again! again! again!And the havoc did not slack,Till a feebler cheer the DaneTo our cheering sent us back;Their shots along the deep slowly boom:—Then ceased, and all is wail,As they strike the shattered sail;Or, in conflagration pale,Light the gloom.
Out spoke the victor then,As he hailed them o'er the wave:'Ye are brothers! we are men!And we conquer but to save:So peace instead of death let us bring;But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,With the crews, at England's feet,And make submission meetTo our King.'
Then Denmark blessed our chief,That he gave her wounds repose;And the sounds of joy and griefFrom her people wildly rose,As death withdrew his shades from the day;While the sun looked smiling brightO'er a wide and woeful sight,Where the fires of funeral lightDied away.
Now joy, Old England raise,For the tidings of thy might,By the festal cities' blaze,Whilst the wine-cup shines in light;And yet amidst that joy and uproarLet us think of them that sleep,Full many a fathom deep,By thy wild and stormy steep,Elsinore!
Brave hearts! to Britain's prideOnce so faithful and so true,On the deck of fame that died,With the gallant good Riou:Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave;While the billow mournful rolls,And the mermaid's song condoles,Singing glory to the soulsOf the brave.