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No motion has she now, no force;
She neither hears nor sees;
Roll'd round in earth's diurnal course
With rocks, and stones, and trees!
W. Wordsworth



CHIEFTAIN to the Highlands bound
Cries Boatman, do not tarry!



And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry!'

'Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle This dark and stormy water?'

'O 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,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover!'

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight
'I'll go, my chief, I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

'And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

'O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries,
'Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.'

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,

When, O! too strong for human hand
The tempest gather'd o'er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismay'd, through storm and shade

His child he did discover :

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!' he cried in grief 'Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!— O my daughter!

'T was vain: the loud waves lash'd the shore, Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

T. Campbell



/HY weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide?


I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen


But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

'Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen'-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

'A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you the foremost o' them a'
Shall ride our forest-queen' -
aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.


The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there :
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.


Sir W. Scott


WOW delicious is the winning

Hof a kiss at love's beginning,

When two mutual hearts are sighing
For the knot there's no untying!

Yet remember, 'midst your wooing,
Love has bliss, but Love has ruing;
Other smiles may make you fickle,
Tears for other charms may trickle.

Love he comes, and Love he tarries,
Just as fate or fancy carries ;
Longest stays, when sorest chidden;
Laughs and flies, when press'd and bidden.

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream
The champak odours fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint

It dies upon her heart,

As I must die on thine

O beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die, I faint, I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain

On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;
O! press it close to thine again
Where it will break at last.


P. B. Shelley

HE walks in beauty, like the night


And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress
Or softly lightens o'er her face,
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

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