A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue,...
The sun is rising dimly red, The wind is wailing low and dread; From his cliff the eagle sallies, Leaves the wolf his darksome valleys; In the mist the ravens hover, Peep the wild dogs from the cover,...
Stern eagle of the far north-west, Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thunderbolt, Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to madness, Thou the destroyer of herds, thou the scatterer of navies,...
The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye...
Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide; But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill. There is one that has warrant to wait on you still....
1. Whet the bright steel, Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch, Daughter of Hengist! The steel glimmers not for the carving of the banquet, It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;...
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From the true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the fair billow, Where early violets die,...