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Seite 71 - I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. — And fast before her father's men Three days we've fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. His horsemen hard behind us ride ; Should they our steps discover...
Seite 60 - Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve.
Seite 34 - Wi' the auld moon in her arm; And if we gang to sea, master, I fear we'll come to harm." They hadna sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud, And gurly grew the sea. The ankers brak, and the topmasts lap, It was sic a deadly storm; And the waves cam o'er the broken ship, Till a
Seite 61 - And saved from outrage worse than death The lady of the land ; And how she wept and...
Seite viii - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids, that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it ; it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Seite 150 - Knight; And naebody kens that he lies there, But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair. "His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, So we may mak our dinner sweet. "Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pick out his bonny blue een: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
Seite 108 - The youth of green savannahs spake, And many an endless, endless lake, With all its fairy crowds Of islands, that together lie As quietly as spots of sky Among the evening clouds. "How pleasant...
Seite 60 - All thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o'er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower.
Seite 34 - A' for the sake of their true loves ; For them they'll see nae mair. O lang, lang, may the ladyes sit, Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens Come sailing to the strand ! And lang, lang, may the maidens sit, Wi' their goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves ! For them they'll see nae mair.