The master of Ballantrae; Weir of Hermiston; Poems

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Jefferson Press, 1896
 

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Page 594 - REQUIEM UNDER the wide and starry sky, Dig the grave and let me lie. Glad did I live and gladly die, And I laid me down with a will. This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be ; Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.
Page 608 - Let the blow fall soon or late, Let what will be o'er me; Give the face of earth around And the road before me. Wealth I seek not, hope nor love, Nor a friend to know me; All I seek the heaven above And the road below me.
Page 538 - THE world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings.
Page 538 - I saw the different things you did, But always you yourself you hid. I felt you push, I heard you call, I could not see yourself at all — O wind, a-blowing all day long, O wind, that sings so loud a song!
Page 616 - BRIGHT is the ring of words When the right man rings them, Fair the fall of songs When the singer sings them. Still they are carolled and said — On wings they are carried — After the singer is dead And the maker buried.
Page 533 - Dark brown is the river, Golden is the sand. It flows along forever With trees on either hand. Green leaves a-floating, Castles of the foam, Boats of mine a-boating— Where will all come home ? On goes the river And out past the mill, Away down the valley, Away down the hill. Away down the river, A hundred miles or more, Other little children Shall bring my...
Page 603 - THE bed was made, the room was fit, By punctual eve the stars were lit ; The air was still, the water ran, No need was there for maid or man, When we put up, my ass and I, At God's green caravanserai 1 From Travels with a Donkey.
Page 643 - ... to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how! Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the...
Page 535 - He is very, very like me from the heels up to the head ; And I see him jump before me, when I jump into my bed. The funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow — Not at all like proper children, which is always very slow ; For he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball, And he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all. He hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play, And can only make a fool of me in every sort of way. He stays so close beside me, he's...
Page 642 - SING me a song of a lad that is gone Say, could that lad be I? Merry of soul he sailed on a day Over the sea to Skye.

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