Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 'And fast before her father's men 'His horsemen hard behind us ride- 'And by my word! the bonny bird So though the waves are raging white By this the storm grew loud apace, But still as wilder blew the wind, 'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, The boat has left a stormy land, A stormy sea before her, When, oh! too strong for human hand The tempest gather'd o'er her. And still they row'd amidst the roar Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid, 'Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'Across this stormy water: And I'll forgive your Highland chief, 'Twas vain the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing : The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting. T. Campbell CCXXVI LUCY GRAY Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray: No mate, no comrade Lucy knew ; The sweetest thing that ever grew You yet may spy the fawn at play, But the sweet face of Lucy Gray 'To-night will be a stormy night— 'That, Father! will I gladly do: The minster-clock has just struck two, At this the father raised his hook, He plied his work ;-and Lucy took Not blither is the mountain roe: Her feet disperse the powdery snow, The storm came on before its time: And many a hill did Lucy climb : The wretched parents all that night Went shouting far and wide; But there was neither sound nor sight To serve them for a guide. At day-break on a hill they stood That overlook'd the moor; And thence they saw the bridge of wood A furlong from their door. They wept-and, turning homeward, cried 'In heaven we all shall meet!' -When in the snow the mother spied Then downwards from the steep hill's edge They track'd the footmarks small; And through the broken hawthorn hedge, And by the long stone-wall: And then an open field they cross'd: The marks were still the same; They track'd them on, nor ever lost; And to the bridge they came: They follow'd from the snowy bank -Yet some maintain that to this day That you may see sweet Lucy Gray O'er rough and smooth she trips along, That whistles in the wind. W. Wordsworth CCXXVII JOCK OF HAZELDEAN 'Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? But aye she loot the tears down fa' 'Now let this wilfu' grief be done, 'A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair; And you the foremost o' them a’ The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock of Hazeldean. Sir W. Scott CCXXVIII LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY The fountains mingle with the river Nothing in the world is single, See the mountains kiss high heaven, And the sunlight clasps the earth, P. B. Shelley |