HOW vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown’d from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergèd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of repose!Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.When we have run our passions’ heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, that mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that’s madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,Casting the body’s vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and combs its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk’d without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But ’twas beyond a mortal’s shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises ’twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.How well the skilful gard’ner drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th’ industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers!
HOW vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown’d from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergèd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of repose!Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.When we have run our passions’ heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, that mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that’s madeTo a green thought in a green shade.Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,Casting the body’s vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and combs its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk’d without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But ’twas beyond a mortal’s shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises ’twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.How well the skilful gard’ner drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th’ industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers!
HOW vainly men themselves amazeTo win the palm, the oak, or bays,And their uncessant labours seeCrown’d from some single herb or tree,Whose short and narrow-vergèd shadeDoes prudently their toils upbraid;While all the flowers and trees do closeTo weave the garlands of repose!
Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,And Innocence thy sister dear?Mistaken long, I sought you thenIn busy companies of men:Your sacred plants, if here below,Only among the plants will grow:Society is all but rudeTo this delicious solitude.
No white nor red was ever seenSo amorous as this lovely green.Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,Cut in these trees their mistress’ name:Little, alas! they know or heedHow far these beauties hers exceed!Fair trees! wheres’e’er your barks I wound,No name shall but your own be found.
When we have run our passions’ heat,Love hither makes his best retreat:The gods, that mortal beauty chase,Still in a tree did end their race;Apollo hunted Daphne soOnly that she might laurel grow;And Pan did after Syrinx speedNot as a nymph, but for a reed.
What wondrous life in this I lead!Ripe apples drop about my head;The luscious clusters of the vineUpon my mouth do crush their wine;The nectarine and curious peachInto my hands themselves do reach;Stumbling on melons, as I pass,Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.
Meanwhile the mind from pleasure lessWithdraws into its happiness;The mind, that ocean where each kindDoes straight its own resemblance find;Yet it creates, transcending these,Far other worlds, and other seas;Annihilating all that’s madeTo a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain’s sliding foot,Or at some fruit-tree’s mossy root,Casting the body’s vest aside,My soul into the boughs does glide;There, like a bird, it sits and sings,Then whets and combs its silver wings,And, till prepared for longer flight,Waves in its plumes the various light.
Such was that happy Garden-stateWhile man there walk’d without a mate:After a place so pure and sweet,What other help could yet be meet!But ’twas beyond a mortal’s shareTo wander solitary there:Two paradises ’twere in one,To live in Paradise alone.
How well the skilful gard’ner drewOf flowers and herbs this dial new!Where, from above, the milder sunDoes through a fragrant zodiac run:And, as it works, th’ industrious beeComputes its time as well as we.How could such sweet and wholesome hoursBe reckon’d, but with herbs and flowers!
360.
WHERE the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that row’d alongThe listening woods received this song:‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeUnto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air:He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O, let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!’Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
WHERE the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that row’d alongThe listening woods received this song:‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeUnto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air:He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O, let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!’Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
WHERE the remote Bermudas rideIn the ocean’s bosom unespied,From a small boat that row’d alongThe listening woods received this song:
‘What should we do but sing His praiseThat led us through the watery mazeUnto an isle so long unknown,And yet far kinder than our own?Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks,That lift the deep upon their backs,He lands us on a grassy stage,Safe from the storms’ and prelates’ rage:He gave us this eternal SpringWhich here enamels everything,And sends the fowls to us in careOn daily visits through the air:He hangs in shades the orange brightLike golden lamps in a green night,And does in the pomegranates closeJewels more rich than Ormus shows:He makes the figs our mouths to meetAnd throws the melons at our feet;But apples plants of such a price,No tree could ever bear them twice.With cedars chosen by His handFrom Lebanon He stores the land;And makes the hollow seas that roarProclaim the ambergris on shore.He cast (of which we rather boast)The Gospel’s pearl upon our coast;And in these rocks for us did frameA temple where to sound His name.O, let our voice His praise exaltTill it arrive at Heaven’s vault,Which thence (perhaps) rebounding mayEcho beyond the Mexique bay!’
Thus sung they in the English boatA holy and a cheerful note:And all the way, to guide their chime,With falling oars they kept the time.
361.
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame!’Tis to commend her, but to name.Courtship which, living, she declined,When dead, to offer were unkind:Nor can the truest wit, or friend,Without detracting, her commend.To say—she lived a virgin chasteIn this age loose and all unlaced;Nor was, when vice is so allowed,Of virtue or ashamed or proud;That her soul was on Heaven so bent,No minute but it came and went;That, ready her last debt to pay,She summ’d her life up every day;Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,Gentle as evening, cool as night:—’Tis true; but all too weakly said.’Twas more significant, she’s dead.
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame!’Tis to commend her, but to name.Courtship which, living, she declined,When dead, to offer were unkind:Nor can the truest wit, or friend,Without detracting, her commend.To say—she lived a virgin chasteIn this age loose and all unlaced;Nor was, when vice is so allowed,Of virtue or ashamed or proud;That her soul was on Heaven so bent,No minute but it came and went;That, ready her last debt to pay,She summ’d her life up every day;Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,Gentle as evening, cool as night:—’Tis true; but all too weakly said.’Twas more significant, she’s dead.
ENOUGH; and leave the rest to Fame!’Tis to commend her, but to name.Courtship which, living, she declined,When dead, to offer were unkind:Nor can the truest wit, or friend,Without detracting, her commend.
To say—she lived a virgin chasteIn this age loose and all unlaced;Nor was, when vice is so allowed,Of virtue or ashamed or proud;That her soul was on Heaven so bent,No minute but it came and went;That, ready her last debt to pay,She summ’d her life up every day;Modest as morn, as mid-day bright,Gentle as evening, cool as night:—’Tis true; but all too weakly said.’Twas more significant, she’s dead.
1621-1695
362.
HAPPY those early days, when IShin’d in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white celestial thought:When yet I had not walk’d aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back—at that short space—Could see a glimpse of His bright face:When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r,My gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity:Before I taught my tongue to woundMy Conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to ev’ry sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th’ enlightned spirit seesThat shady City of Palm-trees.But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
HAPPY those early days, when IShin’d in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white celestial thought:When yet I had not walk’d aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back—at that short space—Could see a glimpse of His bright face:When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r,My gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity:Before I taught my tongue to woundMy Conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to ev’ry sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th’ enlightned spirit seesThat shady City of Palm-trees.But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
HAPPY those early days, when IShin’d in my Angel-infancy!Before I understood this placeAppointed for my second race,Or taught my soul to fancy aughtBut a white celestial thought:When yet I had not walk’d aboveA mile or two from my first Love,And looking back—at that short space—Could see a glimpse of His bright face:When on some gilded cloud, or flow’r,My gazing soul would dwell an hour,And in those weaker glories spySome shadows of eternity:Before I taught my tongue to woundMy Conscience with a sinful sound,Or had the black art to dispenseA several sin to ev’ry sense,But felt through all this fleshly dressBright shoots of everlastingness.
O how I long to travel back,And tread again that ancient track!That I might once more reach that plainWhere first I left my glorious train;From whence th’ enlightned spirit seesThat shady City of Palm-trees.But ah! my soul with too much stayIs drunk, and staggers in the way!Some men a forward motion love,But I by backward steps would move;And when this dust falls to the urn,In that state I came, return.
363.
MY soul, there is a countryFar beyond the stars,Where stands a wingèd sentryAll skilful in the wars:There, above noise and danger,Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,And One born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious Friend,And—O my soul, awake!—Did in pure love descendTo die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of Peace,The Rose that cannot wither,Thy fortress, and thy ease.Leave then thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secureBut One who never changes—Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
MY soul, there is a countryFar beyond the stars,Where stands a wingèd sentryAll skilful in the wars:There, above noise and danger,Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,And One born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious Friend,And—O my soul, awake!—Did in pure love descendTo die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of Peace,The Rose that cannot wither,Thy fortress, and thy ease.Leave then thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secureBut One who never changes—Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
MY soul, there is a countryFar beyond the stars,Where stands a wingèd sentryAll skilful in the wars:There, above noise and danger,Sweet Peace sits crown’d with smiles,And One born in a mangerCommands the beauteous files.He is thy gracious Friend,And—O my soul, awake!—Did in pure love descendTo die here for thy sake.If thou canst get but thither,There grows the flower of Peace,The Rose that cannot wither,Thy fortress, and thy ease.Leave then thy foolish ranges;For none can thee secureBut One who never changes—Thy God, thy life, thy cure.
364.
SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers.And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies,While the low violet thrives at their root.But thou beneath the sad and heavy lineOf death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent,Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,Were still alive—thou dost great storms resentBefore they come, and know’st how near they be.Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breathOf tempests can no more disturb thy ease;But this thy strange resentment after deathMeans only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers.And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies,While the low violet thrives at their root.But thou beneath the sad and heavy lineOf death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent,Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,Were still alive—thou dost great storms resentBefore they come, and know’st how near they be.Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breathOf tempests can no more disturb thy ease;But this thy strange resentment after deathMeans only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
SURE thou didst flourish once! and many springs,Many bright mornings, much dew, many showers,Pass’d o’er thy head; many light hearts and wings,Which now are dead, lodg’d in thy living bowers.
And still a new succession sings and flies;Fresh groves grow up, and their green branches shootTowards the old and still enduring skies,While the low violet thrives at their root.
But thou beneath the sad and heavy lineOf death, doth waste all senseless, cold, and dark;Where not so much as dreams of light may shine,Nor any thought of greenness, leaf, or bark.
And yet—as if some deep hate and dissent,Bred in thy growth betwixt high winds and thee,Were still alive—thou dost great storms resentBefore they come, and know’st how near they be.
Else all at rest thou liest, and the fierce breathOf tempests can no more disturb thy ease;But this thy strange resentment after deathMeans only those who broke—in life—thy peace.
365.
THEY are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit ling’ring here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun’s remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,To kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.If a star were confin’d into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill,Where I shall need no glass.
THEY are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit ling’ring here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun’s remove.I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,To kindle my cold love.Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.And yet as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.If a star were confin’d into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill,Where I shall need no glass.
THEY are all gone into the world of light!And I alone sit ling’ring here;Their very memory is fair and bright,And my sad thoughts doth clear.
It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast,Like stars upon some gloomy grove,Or those faint beams in which this hill is drestAfter the sun’s remove.
I see them walking in an air of glory,Whose light doth trample on my days:My days, which are at best but dull and hoary,Mere glimmering and decays.
O holy Hope! and high Humility,High as the heavens above!These are your walks, and you have show’d them me,To kindle my cold love.
Dear, beauteous Death! the jewel of the Just,Shining nowhere, but in the dark;What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust,Could man outlook that mark!
He that hath found some fledg’d bird’s nest may know,At first sight, if the bird be flown;But what fair well or grove he sings in now,That is to him unknown.
And yet as Angels in some brighter dreamsCall to the soul, when man doth sleep:So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes,And into glory peep.
If a star were confin’d into a tomb,Her captive flames must needs burn there;But when the hand that lock’d her up gives room,She’ll shine through all the sphere.
O Father of eternal life, and allCreated glories under Thee!Resume Thy spirit from this world of thrallInto true liberty.
Either disperse these mists, which blot and fillMy perspective still as they pass:Or else remove me hence unto that hill,Where I shall need no glass.
1628-1688
366.
HE that is down needs fear no fall,He that is low, no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide.I am content with what I have,Little be it or much:And, Lord, contentment still I crave,Because Thou savest such.Fullness to such a burden isThat go on pilgrimage:Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age.
HE that is down needs fear no fall,He that is low, no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide.I am content with what I have,Little be it or much:And, Lord, contentment still I crave,Because Thou savest such.Fullness to such a burden isThat go on pilgrimage:Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age.
HE that is down needs fear no fall,He that is low, no pride;He that is humble ever shallHave God to be his guide.
I am content with what I have,Little be it or much:And, Lord, contentment still I crave,Because Thou savest such.
Fullness to such a burden isThat go on pilgrimage:Here little, and hereafter bliss,Is best from age to age.
367.
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;And there he saw a ladye brightCome riding down by the Eildon Tree.Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,Hung fifty siller bells and nine.True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,And louted low down on his knee:‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!For thy peer on earth could never be.’‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,‘That name does not belang to me;I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,That am hither come to visit thee.‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;And if ye dare to kiss my lips,Sure of your bodie I will be.’
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;And there he saw a ladye brightCome riding down by the Eildon Tree.Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,Hung fifty siller bells and nine.True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,And louted low down on his knee:‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!For thy peer on earth could never be.’‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,‘That name does not belang to me;I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,That am hither come to visit thee.‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;And if ye dare to kiss my lips,Sure of your bodie I will be.’
TRUE Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;A ferlie he spied wi’ his e’e;And there he saw a ladye brightCome riding down by the Eildon Tree.
Her skirt was o’ the grass-green silk,Her mantle o’ the velvet fyne;At ilka tett o’ her horse’s mane,Hung fifty siller bells and nine.
True Thomas he pu’d aff his cap,And louted low down on his knee:‘Hail to thee, Mary, Queen of Heaven!For thy peer on earth could never be.’
‘O no, O no, Thomas,’ she said,‘That name does not belang to me;I’m but the Queen o’ fair Elfland,That am hither come to visit thee.
‘Harp and carp, Thomas,’ she said;‘Harp and carp along wi’ me;And if ye dare to kiss my lips,Sure of your bodie I will be.’
ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel).
ferlie] marvel. tett] tuft, lock. harp and carp] play and recite (as a minstrel).
‘BETIDE me weal, betide me woe,That weird shall never daunten me.’Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,All underneath the Eildon Tree.‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;And ye maun serve me seven years,Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,The steed gaed swifter than the wind.O they rade on, and farther on,The steed gaed swifter than the wind;Until they reach’d a desert wide,And living land was left behind.‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,And lean your head upon my knee;Abide ye there a little space,And I will show you ferlies three.‘O see ye not yon narrow road,So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?That is the Path of Righteousness,Though after it but few inquires.‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,That lies across the lily leven?That is the Path of Wickedness,Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
‘BETIDE me weal, betide me woe,That weird shall never daunten me.’Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,All underneath the Eildon Tree.‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;And ye maun serve me seven years,Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,The steed gaed swifter than the wind.O they rade on, and farther on,The steed gaed swifter than the wind;Until they reach’d a desert wide,And living land was left behind.‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,And lean your head upon my knee;Abide ye there a little space,And I will show you ferlies three.‘O see ye not yon narrow road,So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?That is the Path of Righteousness,Though after it but few inquires.‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,That lies across the lily leven?That is the Path of Wickedness,Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
‘BETIDE me weal, betide me woe,That weird shall never daunten me.’Syne he has kiss’d her rosy lips,All underneath the Eildon Tree.
‘Now ye maun go wi’ me,’ she said,‘True Thomas, ye maun go wi’ me;And ye maun serve me seven years,Thro’ weal or woe as may chance to be.’
She’s mounted on her milk-white steed,She’s ta’en true Thomas up behind;And aye, whene’er her bridle rang,The steed gaed swifter than the wind.
O they rade on, and farther on,The steed gaed swifter than the wind;Until they reach’d a desert wide,And living land was left behind.
‘Light down, light down now, true Thomas,And lean your head upon my knee;Abide ye there a little space,And I will show you ferlies three.
‘O see ye not yon narrow road,So thick beset wi’ thorns and briers?That is the Path of Righteousness,Though after it but few inquires.
‘And see ye not yon braid, braid road,That lies across the lily leven?That is the Path of Wickedness,Though some call it the Road to Heaven.
leven]? lawn.
leven]? lawn.
‘AND see ye not yon bonny roadThat winds about the fernie brae?That is the Road to fair Elfland,Where thou and I this night maun gae.‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,Whatever ye may hear or see;For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’O they rade on, and farther on,And they waded rivers abune the knee;And they saw neither sun nor moon,But they heard the roaring of the sea.It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earthRins through the springs o’ that countrie.Syne they came to a garden green,And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!I neither dought to buy or sellAt fair or tryst where I might be.‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,‘For as I say, so must it be.’
‘AND see ye not yon bonny roadThat winds about the fernie brae?That is the Road to fair Elfland,Where thou and I this night maun gae.‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,Whatever ye may hear or see;For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’O they rade on, and farther on,And they waded rivers abune the knee;And they saw neither sun nor moon,But they heard the roaring of the sea.It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earthRins through the springs o’ that countrie.Syne they came to a garden green,And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!I neither dought to buy or sellAt fair or tryst where I might be.‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,‘For as I say, so must it be.’
‘AND see ye not yon bonny roadThat winds about the fernie brae?That is the Road to fair Elfland,Where thou and I this night maun gae.
‘But, Thomas, ye sall haud your tongue,Whatever ye may hear or see;For speak ye word in Elfyn-land,Ye’ll ne’er win back to your ain countrie.’
O they rade on, and farther on,And they waded rivers abune the knee;And they saw neither sun nor moon,But they heard the roaring of the sea.
It was mirk, mirk night, there was nae starlight,They waded thro’ red blude to the knee;For a’ the blude that’s shed on the earthRins through the springs o’ that countrie.
Syne they came to a garden green,And she pu’d an apple frae a tree:‘Take this for thy wages, true Thomas;It will give thee the tongue that can never lee.’
‘My tongue is my ain,’ true Thomas he said;‘A gudely gift ye wad gie to me!I neither dought to buy or sellAt fair or tryst where I might be.
‘I dought neither speak to prince or peer,Nor ask of grace from fair ladye!’—‘Now haud thy peace, Thomas,’ she said,‘For as I say, so must it be.’
dought] could.
dought] could.
HE has gotten a coat of the even cloth,And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;And till seven years were gane and past,True Thomas on earth was never seen.
HE has gotten a coat of the even cloth,And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;And till seven years were gane and past,True Thomas on earth was never seen.
HE has gotten a coat of the even cloth,And a pair o’ shoon of the velvet green;And till seven years were gane and past,True Thomas on earth was never seen.
368.
THE king sits in Dunfermline townDrinking the blude-red wine;‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o’ mine?’O up and spak an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee;‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sail’d the sea.’Our king has written a braid letter,And seal’d it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o’er the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis thou must bring her hame.’The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud, loud laugh’d he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e’e.
THE king sits in Dunfermline townDrinking the blude-red wine;‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o’ mine?’O up and spak an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee;‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sail’d the sea.’Our king has written a braid letter,And seal’d it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o’er the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis thou must bring her hame.’The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud, loud laugh’d he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e’e.
THE king sits in Dunfermline townDrinking the blude-red wine;‘O whare will I get a skeely skipperTo sail this new ship o’ mine?’
O up and spak an eldern knight,Sat at the king’s right knee;‘Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailorThat ever sail’d the sea.’
Our king has written a braid letter,And seal’d it with his hand,And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,Was walking on the strand.
‘To Noroway, to Noroway,To Noroway o’er the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis thou must bring her hame.’
The first word that Sir Patrick readSo loud, loud laugh’d he;The neist word that Sir Patrick readThe tear blinded his e’e.
368.skeely] skilful.
368.skeely] skilful.
‘OWHA is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time o’ year,To sail upon the sea?‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis we must fetch her hame.’They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi’ a’ the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
‘OWHA is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time o’ year,To sail upon the sea?‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis we must fetch her hame.’They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi’ a’ the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
‘OWHA is this has done this deedAnd tauld the king o’ me,To send us out, at this time o’ year,To sail upon the sea?
‘Be it wind, be it weet, be it hail, be it sleet,Our ship must sail the faem;The king’s daughter o’ Noroway,’Tis we must fetch her hame.’
They hoysed their sails on Monenday mornWi’ a’ the speed they may;They hae landed in NorowayUpon a Wodensday.
‘MAK ready, mak ready, my merry men a’;Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.‘I saw the new moon late yestreenWi’ the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’They hadna sail’d a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,It was sic a deadly storm:And the waves cam owre the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.
‘MAK ready, mak ready, my merry men a’;Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.‘I saw the new moon late yestreenWi’ the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’They hadna sail’d a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,It was sic a deadly storm:And the waves cam owre the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.
‘MAK ready, mak ready, my merry men a’;Our gude ship sails the morn.’‘Now ever alack, my master dear,I fear a deadly storm.
‘I saw the new moon late yestreenWi’ the auld moon in her arm;And if we gang to sea, master,I fear we’ll come to harm.’
They hadna sail’d a league, a league,A league but barely three,When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,And gurly grew the sea.
The ankers brak, and the topmast lap,It was sic a deadly storm:And the waves cam owre the broken shipTill a’ her sides were torn.
lift] sky. lap] sprang.
lift] sky. lap] sprang.
‘GO fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And let nae the sea come in.’They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heel’d shoon;But lang or a’ the play was play’dThey wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather bedThat flatter’d on the faem;And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair cam hame.O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ their gowd kames in their hair,A-waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they’ll see nae mair.Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep;And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
‘GO fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And let nae the sea come in.’They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heel’d shoon;But lang or a’ the play was play’dThey wat their hats aboon.And mony was the feather bedThat flatter’d on the faem;And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair cam hame.O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ their gowd kames in their hair,A-waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they’ll see nae mair.Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep;And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
‘GO fetch a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And wap them into our ship’s side,And let nae the sea come in.’
They fetch’d a web o’ the silken claith,Another o’ the twine,And they wapp’d them round that gude ship’s side,But still the sea came in.
O laith, laith were our gude Scots lordsTo wet their cork-heel’d shoon;But lang or a’ the play was play’dThey wat their hats aboon.
And mony was the feather bedThat flatter’d on the faem;And mony was the gude lord’s sonThat never mair cam hame.
O lang, lang may the ladies sit,Wi’ their fans into their hand,Before they see Sir Patrick SpensCome sailing to the strand!
And lang, lang may the maidens sitWi’ their gowd kames in their hair,A-waiting for their ain dear loves!For them they’ll see nae mair.
Half-owre, half-owre to Aberdour,’Tis fifty fathoms deep;And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens,Wi’ the Scots lords at his feet!
flatter’d] tossed afloat. kames] combs.
flatter’d] tossed afloat. kames] combs.
369.
‘OWHA will shoe my bonny foot?And wha will glove my hand?And wha will bind my middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band?‘O wha will kame my yellow hair,With a haw bayberry kame?And wha will be my babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame?’‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot,Thy brother will glove thy hand,Thy mither will bind thy middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band.‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,Wi’ a haw bayberry kame;The Almighty will be thy babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame.’‘And wha will build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea?For I will go to seek my love,My ain love Gregory.’Up then spak her father dear,A wafu’ man was he;‘And I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea.
‘OWHA will shoe my bonny foot?And wha will glove my hand?And wha will bind my middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band?‘O wha will kame my yellow hair,With a haw bayberry kame?And wha will be my babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame?’‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot,Thy brother will glove thy hand,Thy mither will bind thy middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band.‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,Wi’ a haw bayberry kame;The Almighty will be thy babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame.’‘And wha will build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea?For I will go to seek my love,My ain love Gregory.’Up then spak her father dear,A wafu’ man was he;‘And I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea.
‘OWHA will shoe my bonny foot?And wha will glove my hand?And wha will bind my middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band?
‘O wha will kame my yellow hair,With a haw bayberry kame?And wha will be my babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame?’
‘Thy father, he will shoe thy foot,Thy brother will glove thy hand,Thy mither will bind thy middle jimpWi’ a lang, lang linen band.
‘Thy sister will kame thy yellow hair,Wi’ a haw bayberry kame;The Almighty will be thy babe’s fatherTill Gregory come hame.’
‘And wha will build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea?For I will go to seek my love,My ain love Gregory.’
Up then spak her father dear,A wafu’ man was he;‘And I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea.
jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry]? a corruption for ‘braw ivory’: or bayberry may = laurel-wood.
jimp] trim. kame] comb. haw bayberry]? a corruption for ‘braw ivory’: or bayberry may = laurel-wood.
‘AND I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea,And ye sal gae and seek your love,Your ain love Gregory.’Then he’s gart build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea,Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners,To bear her company.O he’s gart build a bonny ship,To sail on the salt sea;The mast was o’ the beaten gold,The sails o’ cramoisie.The sides were o’ the gude stout aik,The deck o’ mountain pine,The anchor o’ the silver shene,The ropes o’ silken twine.She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues,But twenty leagues and three,When she met wi’ a rank reiver,And a’ his companie.‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon a’ our sin?Or are ye Mary Magdalane,Was born at Bethlam?’‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon ye your sin,Nor am I Mary Magdalane,Was born in Bethlam.
‘AND I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea,And ye sal gae and seek your love,Your ain love Gregory.’Then he’s gart build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea,Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners,To bear her company.O he’s gart build a bonny ship,To sail on the salt sea;The mast was o’ the beaten gold,The sails o’ cramoisie.The sides were o’ the gude stout aik,The deck o’ mountain pine,The anchor o’ the silver shene,The ropes o’ silken twine.She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues,But twenty leagues and three,When she met wi’ a rank reiver,And a’ his companie.‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon a’ our sin?Or are ye Mary Magdalane,Was born at Bethlam?’‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon ye your sin,Nor am I Mary Magdalane,Was born in Bethlam.
‘AND I will build a bonny ship,And set her on the sea,And ye sal gae and seek your love,Your ain love Gregory.’
Then he’s gart build a bonny ship,And set it on the sea,Wi’ four-and-twenty mariners,To bear her company.
O he’s gart build a bonny ship,To sail on the salt sea;The mast was o’ the beaten gold,The sails o’ cramoisie.
The sides were o’ the gude stout aik,The deck o’ mountain pine,The anchor o’ the silver shene,The ropes o’ silken twine.
She hadna sail’d but twenty leagues,But twenty leagues and three,When she met wi’ a rank reiver,And a’ his companie.
‘Now are ye Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon a’ our sin?Or are ye Mary Magdalane,Was born at Bethlam?’
‘I’m no the Queen of Heaven hie,Come to pardon ye your sin,Nor am I Mary Magdalane,Was born in Bethlam.
cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber.
cramoisie] crimson. reiver] robber.
‘BUT I’m the lass of Lochroyan,That’s sailing on the seaTo see if I can find my love,My ain love Gregory.’‘O see na ye yon bonny bower?It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin;When thou hast sail’d it round about,Lord Gregory is within.’And when she saw the stately tower,Shining both clear and bright,Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,Built on a rock of height,Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners,And bring me to the land,For yonder I see my love’s castle,Close by the salt sea strand.’She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round,And loud and loud cried she,‘Now break, now break your fairy charms,And set my true-love free.’She’s ta’en her young son in her arms.And to the door she’s gane,And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d.But answer got she nane.‘O open, open, Gregory!O open! if ye be within;For here’s the lass of Lochroyan,Come far fra kith and kin.‘O open the door, Lord Gregory!O open and let me in!The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory,The rain drops fra my chin.‘The shoe is frozen to my foot,The glove unto my hand,The wet drops fra my yellow hair,Na langer dow I stand.’O up then spak his ill mither,—An ill death may she die!‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan,She’s far out-owre the sea.‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman,Ye’re no come here for gude;Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock,Or mermaid o’ the flood.’‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock,Nor mermaid o’ the sea,But I am Annie of Lochroyan,O open the door to me!’‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,As I trow thou binna she,Now tell me of some love-tokensThat pass’d ’tween thee and me.’‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,As we sat at the wine,We changed the rings frae our fingers?And I can shew thee thine.
‘BUT I’m the lass of Lochroyan,That’s sailing on the seaTo see if I can find my love,My ain love Gregory.’‘O see na ye yon bonny bower?It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin;When thou hast sail’d it round about,Lord Gregory is within.’And when she saw the stately tower,Shining both clear and bright,Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,Built on a rock of height,Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners,And bring me to the land,For yonder I see my love’s castle,Close by the salt sea strand.’She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round,And loud and loud cried she,‘Now break, now break your fairy charms,And set my true-love free.’She’s ta’en her young son in her arms.And to the door she’s gane,And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d.But answer got she nane.‘O open, open, Gregory!O open! if ye be within;For here’s the lass of Lochroyan,Come far fra kith and kin.‘O open the door, Lord Gregory!O open and let me in!The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory,The rain drops fra my chin.‘The shoe is frozen to my foot,The glove unto my hand,The wet drops fra my yellow hair,Na langer dow I stand.’O up then spak his ill mither,—An ill death may she die!‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan,She’s far out-owre the sea.‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman,Ye’re no come here for gude;Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock,Or mermaid o’ the flood.’‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock,Nor mermaid o’ the sea,But I am Annie of Lochroyan,O open the door to me!’‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,As I trow thou binna she,Now tell me of some love-tokensThat pass’d ’tween thee and me.’‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,As we sat at the wine,We changed the rings frae our fingers?And I can shew thee thine.
‘BUT I’m the lass of Lochroyan,That’s sailing on the seaTo see if I can find my love,My ain love Gregory.’
‘O see na ye yon bonny bower?It’s a’ covered owre wi’ tin;When thou hast sail’d it round about,Lord Gregory is within.’
And when she saw the stately tower,Shining both clear and bright,Whilk stood aboon the jawing wave,Built on a rock of height,
Says, ‘Row the boat, my mariners,And bring me to the land,For yonder I see my love’s castle,Close by the salt sea strand.’
She sail’d it round, and sail’d it round,And loud and loud cried she,‘Now break, now break your fairy charms,And set my true-love free.’
She’s ta’en her young son in her arms.And to the door she’s gane,And long she knock’d, and sair she ca’d.But answer got she nane.
‘O open, open, Gregory!O open! if ye be within;For here’s the lass of Lochroyan,Come far fra kith and kin.
‘O open the door, Lord Gregory!O open and let me in!The wind blows loud and cauld, Gregory,The rain drops fra my chin.
‘The shoe is frozen to my foot,The glove unto my hand,The wet drops fra my yellow hair,Na langer dow I stand.’
O up then spak his ill mither,—An ill death may she die!‘Ye’re no the lass of Lochroyan,She’s far out-owre the sea.
‘Awa’, awa’, ye ill woman,Ye’re no come here for gude;Ye’re but some witch or wil’ warlock,Or mermaid o’ the flood.’
‘I am neither witch nor wil’ warlock,Nor mermaid o’ the sea,But I am Annie of Lochroyan,O open the door to me!’
‘Gin ye be Annie of Lochroyan,As I trow thou binna she,Now tell me of some love-tokensThat pass’d ’tween thee and me.’
‘O dinna ye mind, love Gregory,As we sat at the wine,We changed the rings frae our fingers?And I can shew thee thine.
dow] can.
dow] can.
‘OYOURS was gude, and gude enough,But ay the best was mine,For yours was o’ the gude red gowd,But mine o’ the diamond fine.‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd,Mine o’ the diamond fine;Mine was o’ the purest troth,But thine was false within.’‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan,As I kenna thou be,Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokensPass’d between thee and me.’‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory!As we sat on the hill,Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid,Right sair against my will?‘Now open the door, love Gregory!Open the door! I pray;For thy young son is in my arms,And will be dead ere day.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman,So loud I hear ye lie;For Annie of the LochroyanIs far out-owre the sea.’Fair Annie turn’d her round about:‘Weel, sine that it be sae,May ne’er woman that has borne a sonHae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae!‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd,Set up a mast of tree;It disna become a forsaken ladyTo sail sae royallie.’When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn,And the sun began to peep,Up then raise Lord Gregory,And sair, sair did he weep.‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,I wish it may bring good!That the bonny lass of LochroyanAt my bower window stood.‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,The thought o’t gars me greet!That fair Annie of LochroyanLay dead at my bed-feet.’‘Gin it be for Annie of LochroyanThat ye mak a’ this mane,She stood last night at your bower-door,But I hae sent her hame.’‘O wae betide ye, ill woman,An ill death may ye die!That wadna open the door yoursellNor yet wad waken me.’O he’s gane down to yon shore-side,As fast as he could dree,And there he saw fair Annie’s barkA rowing owre the sea.‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried,‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’The braider grew the tide.‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie,Dear Annie, speak to me!’But ay the louder he gan call,The louder roar’d the sea.The wind blew loud, the waves rose hieAnd dash’d the boat on shore;Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem,The babe rose never more.Lord Gregory tore his gowden locksAnd made a wafu’ moan;Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,His bonny son was gone.‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek,And gowden was her hair,And coral, coral was her lips,Nane might with her compare,’Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek,And syne he kiss’d her chin,And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips,There was na breath within.‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She turn’d my true-love frae my door,Who cam so far to me.‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She has no been the deid o’ ane,But she’s been the deid of three.’Then he’s ta’en out a little dart,Hung low down by his gore,He thrust it through and through his heart,And words spak never more.
‘OYOURS was gude, and gude enough,But ay the best was mine,For yours was o’ the gude red gowd,But mine o’ the diamond fine.‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd,Mine o’ the diamond fine;Mine was o’ the purest troth,But thine was false within.’‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan,As I kenna thou be,Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokensPass’d between thee and me.’‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory!As we sat on the hill,Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid,Right sair against my will?‘Now open the door, love Gregory!Open the door! I pray;For thy young son is in my arms,And will be dead ere day.’‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman,So loud I hear ye lie;For Annie of the LochroyanIs far out-owre the sea.’Fair Annie turn’d her round about:‘Weel, sine that it be sae,May ne’er woman that has borne a sonHae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae!‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd,Set up a mast of tree;It disna become a forsaken ladyTo sail sae royallie.’When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn,And the sun began to peep,Up then raise Lord Gregory,And sair, sair did he weep.‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,I wish it may bring good!That the bonny lass of LochroyanAt my bower window stood.‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,The thought o’t gars me greet!That fair Annie of LochroyanLay dead at my bed-feet.’‘Gin it be for Annie of LochroyanThat ye mak a’ this mane,She stood last night at your bower-door,But I hae sent her hame.’‘O wae betide ye, ill woman,An ill death may ye die!That wadna open the door yoursellNor yet wad waken me.’O he’s gane down to yon shore-side,As fast as he could dree,And there he saw fair Annie’s barkA rowing owre the sea.‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried,‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’The braider grew the tide.‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie,Dear Annie, speak to me!’But ay the louder he gan call,The louder roar’d the sea.The wind blew loud, the waves rose hieAnd dash’d the boat on shore;Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem,The babe rose never more.Lord Gregory tore his gowden locksAnd made a wafu’ moan;Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,His bonny son was gone.‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek,And gowden was her hair,And coral, coral was her lips,Nane might with her compare,’Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek,And syne he kiss’d her chin,And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips,There was na breath within.‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She turn’d my true-love frae my door,Who cam so far to me.‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She has no been the deid o’ ane,But she’s been the deid of three.’Then he’s ta’en out a little dart,Hung low down by his gore,He thrust it through and through his heart,And words spak never more.
‘OYOURS was gude, and gude enough,But ay the best was mine,For yours was o’ the gude red gowd,But mine o’ the diamond fine.
‘Yours was o’ the gude red gowd,Mine o’ the diamond fine;Mine was o’ the purest troth,But thine was false within.’
‘If ye be the lass of Lochroyan,As I kenna thou be,Tell me some mair o’ the love-tokensPass’d between thee and me.’
‘And dinna ye mind, love Gregory!As we sat on the hill,Thou twin’d me o’ my maidenheid,Right sair against my will?
‘Now open the door, love Gregory!Open the door! I pray;For thy young son is in my arms,And will be dead ere day.’
‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye ill woman,So loud I hear ye lie;For Annie of the LochroyanIs far out-owre the sea.’
Fair Annie turn’d her round about:‘Weel, sine that it be sae,May ne’er woman that has borne a sonHae a heart sae fu’ o’ wae!
‘Tak down, tak down that mast o’ gowd,Set up a mast of tree;It disna become a forsaken ladyTo sail sae royallie.’
When the cock had crawn, and the day did dawn,And the sun began to peep,Up then raise Lord Gregory,And sair, sair did he weep.
‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,I wish it may bring good!That the bonny lass of LochroyanAt my bower window stood.
‘O I hae dream’d a dream, mither,The thought o’t gars me greet!That fair Annie of LochroyanLay dead at my bed-feet.’
‘Gin it be for Annie of LochroyanThat ye mak a’ this mane,She stood last night at your bower-door,But I hae sent her hame.’
‘O wae betide ye, ill woman,An ill death may ye die!That wadna open the door yoursellNor yet wad waken me.’
O he’s gane down to yon shore-side,As fast as he could dree,And there he saw fair Annie’s barkA rowing owre the sea.
‘O Annie, Annie,’ loud he cried,‘O Annie, O Annie, bide!’But ay the mair he cried ‘Annie,’The braider grew the tide.
‘O Annie, Annie, dear Annie,Dear Annie, speak to me!’But ay the louder he gan call,The louder roar’d the sea.
The wind blew loud, the waves rose hieAnd dash’d the boat on shore;Fair Annie’s corpse was in the faem,The babe rose never more.
Lord Gregory tore his gowden locksAnd made a wafu’ moan;Fair Annie’s corpse lay at his feet,His bonny son was gone.
‘O cherry, cherry was her cheek,And gowden was her hair,And coral, coral was her lips,Nane might with her compare,’
Then first he kiss’d her pale, pale cheek,And syne he kiss’d her chin,And syne he kiss’d her wane, wane lips,There was na breath within.
‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She turn’d my true-love frae my door,Who cam so far to me.
‘O wae betide my ill mither,An ill death may she die!She has no been the deid o’ ane,But she’s been the deid of three.’
Then he’s ta’en out a little dart,Hung low down by his gore,He thrust it through and through his heart,And words spak never more.
369.gore] skirt, waist.
369.gore] skirt, waist.
370.