صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

A gowne made of the finest wooll
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold:

A belt of straw, and ivie buds,
With corall clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my Love.

The Shepheard swaines shall dance and sing
For thy delights each May-morning :
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my Love.


[blocks in formation]

Here hath been dawning
Another blue Day:
Think wilt thou let it
Slip useless away.






EVEN daughters had Lord Archibald,
All children of one mother:

You could not say in one short day
What love they bore each other.
A garland, of seven lilies wrought!
Seven sisters that together dwell;
But he, bold Knight as ever fought,
Their Father, took of them no thought,
He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave a Rover brave

To Binnorie is steering :

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


Beside a grotto of their own,
With boughs above them closing,
The seven are laid, and in the shade
They lie like fawns reposing.
But now, upstarting with affright
At noise of man and steed,
Away they fly to left, to right-
Of your fair household, Father-knight,
Methinks you take small heed!
Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful Rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your Father loves to roam :

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;.

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


Some close behind, some side by side,
Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,
And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap
Together plunged into the deep,
Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!


The stream that flows out of the lake,
As through the glen it rambles,
Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone
For those seven lovely Campbells.
Seven little Islands, green and bare,
Have risen from out the deep:
The fishers say, those sisters fair
By fairies are all buried there,
And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,
The solitude of Binnorie!




T is the miller's daughter,


And she is grown so dear, so dear,

That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist, And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,

I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,
And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,

I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.




`HE warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is

THE Wailing,

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are


And the year

On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves


Is lying.

Come, months, come away,
From November to May,

In your saddest array,-
Follow the bier

Of the dead cold year,

And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipt worm is crawling, The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling For the year;

The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards

each gone

To his dwelling.

Come, months, come away;
Put on white, black, and grey;

« السابقةمتابعة »