Merry it is in the good greenwood,
When the mavis and merle are singing,
When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,
And the hunter’s horn is ringing.
’O Alice Brand, my native land
Is lost for love of you;
And we must hold by wood and wold,
As outlaws wont to do!
’O Alice, ’twas all for thy locks so bright,
And ’twas all for thine eyes so blue,
That on the night of our luckless flight,
Thy brother bold I slew.
’Now must I teach to hew the beech,
The hand that held the glaive,
For leaves to spread our lowly bed,
And stakes to fence our cave.
’And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,
That wont on harp to stray,
A cloak must shear from the slaughter’d deer,
To keep the cold away.’ —
– ’O Richard! if my brother died,
’Twas but a fatal chance:
For darkling was the battle tried,
And fortune sped the lance.
’If pall and vair no more I wear,
Nor thou the crimson sheen,
As warm, we’ll say, is the russet gray;
As gay the forest-green.
‘And, Richard, if our lot be hard,
And lost thy native land,
Still Alice has her own Richàrd,
And he his Alice Brand.’
’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood,
So blithe Lady Alice is singing;
On the beech’s pride, and oak’s brown side,
Lord Richard’s axe is ringing.
Up spoke the moody Elfin King,
Who wonn’d within the hill, —
Like wind in the porch of a ruin’d church,
His voice was ghostly shrill.
’Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,
Our moonlight circle’s screen?
Or who comes here to chase the deer,
Beloved of our Elfin Queen?
Or who may dare on wold to wear
The fairies’ fatal green?
’Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,
For thou wert christen’d man:
For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,
For mutter’d word or ban.
‘Lay on him the curse of the wither’d heart,
The curse of the sleepless eye;
Till he wish and pray that his life would part,
Nor yet find leave to die!’
’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in good greenwood,
Though the birds have still’d their singing;
The evening blaze doth Alice raise,
And Richard is fagots bringing.
Up Urgan starts, that hideous dwarf,
Before Lord Richard stands,
And as he cross’d and bless’d himself,
‘I fear not sign,’ quoth the grisly elf,
‘That is made with bloody hands.’
But out then spoke she, Alice Brand,
That woman void of fear, —
‘And if there’s blood upon his hand,
’Tis but the blood of deer.’
– ‘Now loud thou liest, thou bold of mood!
It cleaves unto his hand,
The stain of thine own kindly blood,
The blood of Ethert Brand.’
Then forward stepp’d she, Alice Brand,
And made the holy sign, —
‘And if there’s blood on Richard’s hand,
A spotless hand is mine.
‘And I conjure thee, Demon elf,
By Him whom Demons fear,
To show us whence thou art thyself,
And what thine errand here?’
– ‘’Tis merry, ’tis merry, in Fairy-land,
When fairy birds are singing,
When the court doth ride by their monarch’s side,
With bit and bridle ringing:
’And gaily shines the Fairy-land —
But all is glistening show,
Like the idle gleam that December’s beam
Can dart on ice and snow.
’And fading, like that varied gleam,
Is our inconstant shape,
Who now like knight and lady seem,
And now like dwarf and ape.
’It was between the night and day,
When the Fairy King has power,
That I sunk down in a sinful fray,
And ’twixt life and death, was snatch’d away
To the joyless Elfin bower.
‘But wist I of a woman bold,
Who thrice my brow durst sign,
I might regain my mortal mould,
As fair a form as thine.’
She cross’d him once – she cross’d him twice —
That lady was so brave;
The fouler grew his goblin hue,
The darker grew the cave.
She cross’d him thrice, that lady bold!
– He rose beneath her hand
The fairest knight on Scottish mould,
Her brother, Ethert Brand!
– Merry it is in good greenwood,
When the mavis and merle are singing;
But merrier were they in Dumfermline gray
When all the bells were ringing.
Sir W. Scott.
O, wert thou in the cauld blast,
On yonder lea, on yonder lea,
My plaidie to the angry airt,
I’d shelter thee, I’d shelter thee.
Or did misfortune’s bitter storms
Around thee blaw, around thee blaw,
Thy bield should be my bosom,
To share it a’, to share it a’.
Or were I in the wildest waste
Of earth and air, of earth and air,
The desart were a paradise,
If thou wert there, if thou wert there.
Or were I monarch o’ the globe,
Wi’ thee to reign, wi’ thee to reign,
The only jewel in my crown
Wad be my queen, wad be my queen.
R. Burns.
Of a’ the airts the wind can blaw,
I dearly like the west,
For there the bonie lassie lives,
The lassie I lo’e best:
There wild woods grow, and rivers row
And monie a hill between;
But day and night my fancy’s flight
Is ever wi’ my Jean.
I see her in the dewy flowers,
I see her sweet and fair;
I hear her in the tunefu’ birds,
I hear her charm the air:
There’s not a bonie flower that springs
By fountain, shaw, or green;
There’s not a bonie bird that sings,
But minds me o’ my Jean.
R. Burns.
By yon castle wa’, at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, tho’ his head it was grey:
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars,
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say’t but we ken wha’s to blame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o’ my faithfu’ auld dame —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin’ I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same —
There’ll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
R. Burns.
Ye flowery banks o’ bonie Doon,
How can ye blume sae fair!
How can ye chant, ye little birds,
And I sae fu’ o’ care.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings upon the bough;
Thou minds me o’ the happy days,
When my fause luve was true.
Thou’lt break my heart, thou bonie bird,
That sings beside thy mate;
For sae I sat, and sae I sang,
And wist na o’ my fate.
Aft hae I rov’d by bonie Doon,
To see the woodbine twine,
And ilka bird sang o’ its love,
And sae did I o’ mine.
Wi’ lightsome heart I pu’d a rose
Frae off its thorny tree;
And my fause luver staw the rose,
But left the thorn wi’ me.
R. Burns.
As slow our ship her foamy track
Against the wind was cleaving,
Her trembling pennant still looked back
To that dear isle ’twas leaving.
So loth we part from all we love,
From all the links that bind us;
So turn our hearts, where’er we rove,
To those we’ve left behind us!
When, round the bowl, of vanished years
We talk, with joyous seeming, —
With smiles, that might as well be tears
So faint, so sad their beaming;
While memory brings us back again
Each early tie that twined us,
Oh, sweet’s the cup that circles then
To those we’ve left behind us!
And when, in other climes, we meet
Some isle or vale enchanting,
Where all looks flowery, wild, and sweet,
And nought but love is wanting;
We think how great had been our bliss,
If Heaven had but assigned us
To live and die in scenes like this,
With some we’ve left behind us!
As travellers oft look back, at eve,
When eastward darkly going,
To gaze upon that light they leave
Still faint behind them glowing, —
So, when the close of pleasure’s day
To gloom hath near consigned us,
We turn to catch one fading ray
Of joy that’s left behind us.
T. Moore.
O, my luve’s like a red, red rose,
That’s newly sprung in June:
O, my luve’s like the melodie
That’s sweetly play’d in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
And fare thee weel, my only luve,
And fare thee weel awhile!
And I will come again, my luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie.
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;
See the front o’ battle lower;
See approach proud Edward’s power —
Edward! chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and law
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa’?
Caledonian! on wi’ me!
By oppression’s woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall – they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty’s in every blow!
Forward! let us do, or die!
R. Burns.
The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him. —
‘Land of song!’ said the warrior-bard,
‘Though all the world betrays thee,
One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard,
One faithful harp shall praise thee!’
The Minstrel fell! – but the foeman’s chain
Could not bring his proud soul under;
The harp he loved ne’er spoke again,
For he tore its chords asunder;
And said, ‘No chains shall sully thee,
Thou soul of love and bravery!
Thy songs were made for the brave and free,
They shall never sound in slavery!’
T. Moore.
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King,
We left fair Scotland’s strand;
It was a’ for our rightfu’ King
We e’er saw Irish land,
My dear;
We e’er saw Irish land.
Now a’ is done that men can do,
And a’ is done in vain;
My love and native land farewell,
For I maun cross the main,
My dear;
For I maun cross the main.
He turn’d him right and round about
Upon the Irish shore;
And gae his bridle-reins a shake,
With adieu for evermore,
My dear;
With adieu for evermore.
The sodger from the wars returns,
The sailor frae the main;
But I hae parted frae my love,
Never to meet again,
My dear;
Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come,
And a’ folk bound to sleep;
I think on him that’s far awa’,
The lee-lang night, and weep,
My dear;
The lee-lang night, and weep.
R. Burns.
The harp that once through Tara’s halls
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls
As if that soul were fled.
So sleeps the pride of former days,
So glory’s thrill is o’er,
And hearts, that once beat high for praise,
Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright
The harp of Tara swells:
The chord alone, that breaks at night,
Its tale of ruin tells.
Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,
The only throb she gives
Is when some heart indignant breaks,
To show that still she lives.
T. Moore.
Could Love for ever
Run like a river,
And Time’s endeavour
Be tried in vain —
No other pleasure
With this could measure;
And like a treasure
We’d hug the chain.
But since our sighing
Ends not in dying,
And, form’d for flying,
Love plumes his wing;
Then for this reason
Let’s love a season;
But let that season be only Spring.
When lovers parted
Feel broken-hearted,
And, all hopes thwarted
Expect to die;
A few years older,
Ah! how much colder
They might behold her
For whom they sigh!
Lord Byron.
Full fathom five thy father lies:
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell;
Hark! now I hear them —
Ding, Dong, Bell.
W. Shakespeare.
Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
Ah! what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
W. S. Landor.
Who is Silvia? what is she,
That all our swains commend her?
Holy, fair and wise is she;
The heaven such grace did lend her
That she might admired be.
Is she kind, as she is fair?
For beauty lives with kindness.
Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness;
And, being help’d, inhabits there.
Then to Silvia let us sing,
That Silvia is excelling;
She excels each mortal thing
Upon the dull earth dwelling;
To her let us garlands bring.
W. Shakespeare.
Look not thou on beauty’s charming, —
Sit thou still when kings are arming, —
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens, —
Speak not when the people listens, —
Stop thine ear against the singer, —
From the red gold keep thy finger, —
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.
Sir W. Scott.
The sun upon the lake is low,
The wild birds hush their song;
The hills have evening’s deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.
Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one’s side.
The noble dame on turret high,
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armour bright.
The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin’s darkening plaid.
Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart;
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner’s side
Twitters his closing song —
All meet whom day and care divide, —
But Leonard tarries long!
Sir W. Scott.
Orpheus with his lute made trees,
And the mountain tops that freeze,
Bow themselves when he did sing:
To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring.
Everything that heard him play,
Even the billows of the sea,
Hung their heads, and then lay by.
In sweet music is such art,
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
W. Shakespeare.
As I was walking all alane,
I heard twa corbies making a mane;
The tane unto the t’other say,
‘Whar sall we gang and dine the day?’
’In behint yon auld fail2 dyke,
I wot there lies a new-slain knight;
And naebody kens that he lies there
But his hawk, his hound, and lady fair.
’His hound is to the hunting gane,
His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame,
His lady’s ta’en another mate,
So we may make our dinner sweet.
’Ye’ll sit on his white hause bane,
And I’ll pike out his bonny blue e’en:
Wi’ ae lock o’ his gowden hair,
We’ll theek our nest when it grows bare.
‘Mony a one for him makes mane,
But nane sall ken whae he is gane:
O’er his white banes, when they are bare,
The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
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