The Poetical Works of William Motherwell: With a Memoir

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Worthington Company, 1885 - 1 páginas
 

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Página 56 - And ever and anon he beat The doubling drum with furious heat ; And though sometimes, each dreary pause between, Dejected Pity at his side Her soul-subduing voice applied, Yet still he kept his wild unaltered mien, While each strained ball of sight seemed bursting from his head.
Página 77 - The burn sang to the trees, And we with Nature's heart in tune, Concerted harmonies; And on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat In the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi
Página 78 - I've borne a weary lot; But in my wanderings, far or near, Ye never were forgot. The fount that first burst frae this heart Still travels on its way; And channels deeper, as it rins, The luve o' life's young day. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, Since we were sindered young, I've never seen your face, nor heard The music o...
Página 76 - They blind my een wi' saut, saut tears, And sair and sick I pine, As memory idly summons up The blithe blinks o
Página 78 - It's vain to comfort me, Willie, Sair grief maun ha'e its will,— But let me rest upon your briest, To sab and greet my fill. Let me sit on your knee, Willie, Let me shed by your hair, And look into the face, Willie, I never sail see mair ! I'm sittin...
Página 76 - Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in loof, What our wee heads could think ? When baith bent doun ower ae braid page, Wi' ae buik on our knee, Thy lips were on thy lesson, but My lesson was in thee. Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, How cheeks brent red wi' shame, Whene'er the scule-weans laughin' said, We cleek'd thegither hame ? And mind ye o...
Página 149 - But soft ! mine ear upcaught a sound, from yonder wood it came ; The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name ; — Yes, it is he ! the hermit bird, that apart from all his kind, Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind ; Cuckoo...
Página 179 - Will there be one, whose heart despair is crushing, Mourn for my sake ? When the bright sun upon that spot is shining With purest ray, And the small flowers, their buds and blossoms twining, Burst through that clay, — Will there be one still on that spot repining Lost hopes all day...
Página 75 - The luve o' life's young day! The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, May weel be black gin Yule ; But blacker fa' awaits the heart Where first fond luve grows cule. O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, The thochts o' bygane years Still fling their shadows ower my path, And blind my een wi...
Página 156 - Then mounte ! then mounte, brave gallants, all, And don your helmes amaine ; Deathe's couriers, Fame and Honour, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand...

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