The Poets and Poetry of Linlithgowshire: An Anthology of the County

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J. and R. Parlane, 1896 - 352 pagina's
 

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Pagina 55 - But, ere the toofal of the night, He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. " Much I rejoiced that waeful, waeful day, I sang, my voice the woods returning ; But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my Love, and left me mourning.
Pagina 58 - AH ! who can tell how hard it is to climb The steep where Fame's proud temple shines afar; Ah! who can tell how many a soul sublime Has felt the influence of malignant star, And waged with Fortune an eternal war; Check'd by the scoff of Pride, by Envy's frown, And Poverty's unconquerable bar, In life's low vale remote has pined alone, Then dropt into the grave, unpitied and unknown...
Pagina 52 - UNVISITED. [See the various Poems the scene of which is laid upon the banks of the Yarrow ; in particular, the exquisite Ballad of Hamilton, beginning "Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny, bonny Bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome Marrow...
Pagina 184 - I never heard the old song of Percy and Douglas that I found not my heart moved more than with a trumpet...
Pagina 15 - I thought the sparrow's note from heaven, Singing at dawn on the alder bough ; I brought him home, in his nest, at even ; He sings the song, but it pleases not now, For I did not bring home the river and sky; — He sang to my ear, — they sang to my eye.
Pagina 54 - Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan as yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Pagina 55 - But who the expected husband, husband is ? His hands, methinks, are bathed in slaughter. Ah me ! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes in his pale shroud bleeding after? ' Pale as he is, here lay him, lay him down ; O lay his cold head on my pillow : Take aff, take aff these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with willow.
Pagina 102 - On that best portion of a good man's life, — His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.
Pagina 53 - And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow. Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around, in waeful wise, His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.
Pagina 54 - My luve, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest — 'twas my awn sewing : Ah ! wretched me ! I little, little kenn'd He was in these to meet his ruin.

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