The British Poets: Including Translations ...

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C. Whittingham, 1822

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Page 149 - ... day; I sang, my voice the woods returning: But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my luve, and left me mourning.
Page 148 - Sweet smells the birk, green grows, green grows the grass, Yellow on Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet ? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed, As green its grass, its gowan yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow. Fair was thy luve, fair fair indeed thy luve, In floury bands thou him did'st fetter, Tho' he was fair and weil beluv'd again, Than me, he never lued thee better.
Page 105 - Thou art the thing itself : unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art.
Page 105 - Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume.
Page 147 - Then build, then build, ye sisters, sisters sad, Ye sisters sad, his tomb with sorrow, And weep around in waeful wise, His hapless fate on the Braes of Yarrow.
Page 148 - Yarrow fields ! may never, never rain Nor dew thy tender blossoms cover, For there was basely slain my love, My love, as he had not been a lover.
Page 133 - Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling. That artless blush, and modest air, So fatally beguiling. Thy every look, and every grace, So charm whene'er I view thee ; Till Death o'ertake me in the chase, Still will my hopes pursue thee : Then when my tedious hours are past, Be this last blessing given, Low at thy feet to breathe my last, And die in sight of Heaven.
Page 146 - A. BUSK ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, Busk ye, busk ye, my winsome marrow, Busk ye, busk ye, my bonny bonny bride, And think nae mair on the Braes of Yarrow.
Page 19 - The peaceful dwellings where she fix'd her seat; The pleasing fields she wont of old to grace, Companion.- to an upright sober race ; When on the sunny hill, or verdant plain, Free and familiar with the sons of men, To crown the pleasures of the blameless feast, She uninvited came a welcome guest; Ere yet an age, grown rich in impious arts...
Page 109 - tis true, its sacred might, May mitigate thy doom ; As lightning shot across the night, A moment gilds the gloom. O GOD ! thy Providence alone Can work a wonder here, Can change to gladness every moan, And banish all my fear. Thy arm...

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