Ballads and Metrical Tales

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J. Burns, 1845 - Ballads, English - 242 pages

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Page 217 - Our king has written a braid letter, And sealed it with his hand, And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens, Was walking on the strand. "To Noroway, to Noroway, To Noroway o'er the faem ; The king's daughter of Noroway, Tis thou maun bring her hame...
Page 234 - O'er Roslin all that dreary night A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam ; 'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam. It glared on Roslin's castled rock, It ruddied all the copse-wood glen ; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.
Page 134 - Away rode the abbot all sad at that word, And he rode to Cambridge and Oxenford ; But never a doctor there was so wise, That could with his learning an answer devise. Then home rode the abbot of comfort so cold, And he mett his shepheard a going to fold : " How now, my lord abbot, you are welcome home : What newes do you bring us from good King John?
Page 8 - Their hinder parts, with special care, That day were guarded sure. The hounds ran swiftly through the woods, The nimble deer to take, That with their cries the hills and dales An echo shrill did make.
Page 234 - Clair. There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle ; Each one the holy vault doth hold — But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle ! And each Saint Clair was buried there, With candle, with book, and with knell ; But the sea-caves rung and the wild winds sung The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
Page 7 - With fifteen hundred bowmen bold, All chosen men of might, Who knew full well in time of need To aim their shafts aright.
Page 137 - Light down, light down, now, true Thomas, And lean your head upon my knee ; Abide and rest a little space, And I will shew you ferlies three.
Page 83 - LITHE and listen, gentlemen, To sing a song I will beginne : It is of a lord of faire Scotland, Which was the unthrifty heire of Linne. His father was a right good lord, His mother a lady of high degree ; But they, alas ! were dead him froe, And he lov'd keeping companie. To spend the day with merry cheer, To...
Page 84 - My gold is gone, my money is spent ; My lande nowe take it unto thee : Give me the golde, good John o' the Scales, And thine for aye my lande shall bee.
Page 218 - O, where will I get a gude sailor To take my helm in hand, Till I get up to the tall top-mast To see if I can spy land ?" " O here am I, a sailor gude, To take the helm in hand, Till ye get up to the tall top-mast ; But I fear you'll ne'er spy land.

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