The book of ballads [by sir T. Martin and W.E. Aytoun] ed. by Bon Gaultier |
Overige edities - Alles bekijken
The book of ballads [by sir T. Martin and W.E. Aytoun] ed. by Bon Gaultier sir Theodore Martin Volledige weergave - 1849 |
The book of ballads [by sir T. Martin and W.E. Aytoun] ed. by Bon Gaultier sir Theodore Martin Volledige weergave - 1861 |
The Book of Ballads [By Sir T. Martin and W.E. Aytoun] Ed. by Bon Gaultier William Edmondstoune Aytoun,Theodore Martin, Sir Geen voorbeeld beschikbaar - 2016 |
Veelvoorkomende woorden en zinsdelen
armour art thou auld bard bays beer bell beneath bold bosom bound breath brow Charlie Wood cheek cheroot cloth gilt Colt Copmanshurst courser cousin cried Cursed dame dare dear dearest death Don Fernando DOUDNEY DOWER'S fear Fernando Gomersalez Fhairshon flowers friend who's lost Giaour glance Gorbaliers greenwood tree grew gude half-bound morocco hame hand hast hath head hear heard janissaries King kiss lady ladye Launcelot Laureate Laureate's lips Little John look Lord Lord Aberdeen maiden merry minstrel Moorish morocco mother N. P. Willis Neish never night noble o'er onward Poems Queen quoth rose round Rufus Dawes sang Sate sing Slingsby Snapping Turtle song soul speed thee steel stood stout sure sweet ta'en tell There's thine eyes tree Undine Uwins vols warrior Warriors three ween weep wild wine Woolfordinez Young Mivins
Populaire passages
Pagina 207 - Now I'ma wretch, indeed— methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and more lovely than the nosegay in his hand ! —I hear the crowd extolling his resolution and intrepidity !— What volleys of sighs are sent from the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought to disgrace!— I see him at the tree!
Pagina 152 - I'd lounge in the gateway all the day long, With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. I'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord...
Pagina 193 - tis the most infernal bore, Of all the bores I know, To have a friend who's lost his heart A short time ago.
Pagina 109 - Fool, again the dream, the fancy ! but I know my words are wild, But I count the gray barbarian lower than the Christian child.
Pagina 105 - But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British ears. 'Twill not do to pine for ever : I am getting up in years. Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly press, And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretchedness?
Pagina 76 - THE BITER BIT THE sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair, And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air; The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea, And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me! They are going to the church, mother — I hear the marriage bell It booms along the upland — oh! it haunts me like a knell; He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step, And closely to his side she clings — she does, the demirep ! They...
Pagina 21 - ... the Master of the Ring, When he first beheld the lady Through the stabled portal spring! Midway in his wild grimacing Stopped the piebald/visaged Clown; And the thunders of the audience Nearly brought the gallery down. Donna Inez Woolfordinez! Saw ye ever such a maid, With the feathers swaling o'er her, And her spangled rich brocade ? In her fairy hand a horsewhip, On her foot a buskin small, So she stepped, the stately damsel, Through the scarlet grooms and all.
Pagina 212 - He has dropp'd—that star of honor—on the field of his renown! Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees, If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please. Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink, Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink! Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor; See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door! Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely...
Pagina 136 - s dead, he 's dead, the Laureate 's dead ! ' 'T was thus the cry began, And straightway every garret-roof gave up its minstrel man ; From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from Farringdon Within, The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch din.
Pagina 117 - My heart is sick, my heid is sair: Gie me a glass o' the gude brandie: To set my foot on the braid green sward, I'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. 'It's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, But O, it's ill to bear the thud And pitching o