In the Country: Essays

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Satchell, 1883 - 229 pages

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Page 184 - In regions mild of calm and serene air, Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care.
Page 43 - Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for an acre of barren ground ; long heath, brown furze, anything: The wills above be done ! but I would fain die a dry death.
Page 97 - True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank; A ferlie he spied wi' his ee; And there he saw a lady bright, Come riding down by the Eildon Tree. Her skirt was o the grass-green silk, Her mantle o the velvet fyne, At ilka tett of her horse's mane Hang fifty siller bells and nine.
Page 170 - To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise...
Page 113 - I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.
Page 87 - I dought neither speak to prince or peer, Nor ask of grace from fair ladye.' 'Now hold thy peace!' the lady said, 'For as I say, so must it be.' He has gotten a coat of the even cloth, And a pair of shoes of velvet green ; And till seven years were gane and past, True Thomas on earth was never seen.
Page 97 - Her shirt was o' the grass-green silk, Her mantle o' the velvet fyne ; At ilka tett of her horse's mane, Hung fifty siller bells and nine. True Thomas, he...
Page 87 - To tell of the place where she had been, And the glories that lay in the land unseen ; To warn the living maidens fair, The loved of heaven, the spirits' care, That all whose minds unmeled remain Shall bloom in beauty when time is gane.
Page 93 - Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking ; Women and bairns are heartless and wae ; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a
Page 102 - And clomb the winding stair that once Too timidly was mounted By the ' last minstrel,' (not the last !) Ere he his tale recounted. Flow on for ever, Yarrow stream ! Fulfil thy pensive duty, Well pleased that future bards should chant For simple hearts thy beauty ; To dream-light dear while yet unseen, Dear to the common sunshine, And dearer still, as now I feel, To memory's shadowy moonshine...

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