The masts, that were like the beaten gold, But the sails, that were o' the taffetie, They had not sailed a league, a league, A league but barely three, Until she espied his cloven foot, And she wept right bitterlie. 'O hold your tongue of your weeping,' says he, I will show you how the lilies grow 'O what hills are yon, yon pleasant hills, 'O whaten a mountain is yon, she said, And aye when she turn'd her round about, Until that the tops o' the gallant ship Nae taller were than he. The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites He strack the tapmast wi' his hand, And he brake that gallant ship in twain, MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER. THE LAWLANDS OF HOLLAND THE Love that I have chosen I'll therewith be content; But the Lawlands of Holland My Love he built a bonny ship, And my Love and his bonny ship There shall no mantle cross my back, Shine in my bower mair; Nor shall I choose another Love Until the day I dee, Since the Lawlands of Holland Have twinn'd my Love and me. 'Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear, There's other lads in Galloway; I never loved a lad but one, UNKNOWN. THE VALLEY OF UNREST Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell: Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven In myriad types of the human eye— And weep above a nameless grave! POE. THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA NOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone, But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. |