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Or, young Locuintar is coine out of the west,
He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby hall,
66 I long
" I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied ;
The bride kiss'd the goblet, the knight took it up,
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
plume; And the bride_maidens whisperid, “'T were better
by far To have match'd our fair cousin with young Loc.
One touch to her hand, and one word in her car, When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger
stood near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and
They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby
Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and
they ran : There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Locuin.
* This excellent specimen of the narrative ballad in its gay and sprightly form, is by the writer, in his fine poem of
Marmion,” represented as sung by the fascinating Lady Ford before the king of Scotland.
DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,
A shepherd forsaken was laid,
A willow supported his head ;
To his sighs with a sigh did reply, And the brook in return to his pain
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
66 Alas ! silly swain that I was!"
Thus sadly complaining he cried; “ When first I beheld that fair face,
’T were better by far I had died. She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue,
When she smiled 'twas a pleasure too great; I listen’d, and cried, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet ? .
“ How foolish was I to believe
She would dote on so lowly a clown, Or that her fond heart would not grieve
To forsake the fine folks of the town!
To think that a beauty so gay,
So kind and so constant would prove, To go clad like our maidens in gray,
And live in a cottage on love!
66 What tho’I have skill to complain,
Tho' the Muses my temples have crown'd ? What tho', when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around? Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,
Thy pipe and thy laurel resign, Thy fair one inclines to a swain
Whose music is sweeter than thine.
66 And you, my companions so dear,
Who sorrow to see me betray'd,
Forbear to accuse the false maid :
'Tis in vain from our fortune to fly; ’T was hers to be false, and to change,
'T is mine to be constant, and die.
“ If while my hard fate I sustain,
In her breast any pity is found,