English

Will you leave the hills of Scotland?
Your childhood's happy home,
To brave the dangers of the deep,
In foreign lands to roam—
Say, Mary, will you, for my sake
Leave yonder joyous cot—
Your youthful friends and scenes so dear,
To share a soldier's lot?

The battle's din, my Mary,
Has never met thine ear,
The woodlands' songsters melody
Is all that thou dost hear.
The vivid flash of musketry—
The cannon's thundering roar
Must meet thine eye, burst on thine ear
Sounds never heard before.

The robin on my lawn,
He was the first to tell
How, in the frozen dawn,
This miracle befell,
Waking the meadows white
With hoar, the iron road
Agleam with splintered light,
And ice where water flowed:
Till, when the low sun drank
Those milky mists that cloak
Hanger and hollied bank,
The winter world awoke
To hear the feeble bleat
Of lambs on downland farms:
A blackbird whistled sweet;
Old beeches moved their arms
Into a mellow haze
Aërial, newly-born:
And I, alone, agaze,

Four and twenty bonny boys
Were playing at the ba,
And by it came him, sweet Sir Hugh,
And he played o'er them a.

He kick'd the ba with his right foot,
And catchd it wi' his knee,
And throuch-and-thro the Jew's window
He gard the bonny ba flee.

He's doen him to the Jew's castell,
And walkd it round about;
And there he saw the Jew's daughter,
At the window looking out.

"Throw down the ba, ye Jew's daughter,
Throw down the ba to me!'
"Never a bit,' says the Jew's daughter,
"Till up to me come ye.'

A maiden of the countryside
Is mourning since her mother died;
She grieves all night and all the day;
The good priest knows not what to say.

As she is at the tomb praying,
She hears the bells of midnight ring;
She hears the bells of midnight ring,
The hour when spirits are walking.
They walk in groups of three that night,
The black, the gray, and then the white.
Among the black the mother goes.
O God! what fear the daughter knows!

The next night she is come again
To pray God for the soul in pain:

Now Robin Hood, Will Scadlock, and Little John,
Are walking over the plain,
With a good fat buck, which Will Scadlòck
With his strong bow had slain.

Then bold Robin Hood to the north he would go,
With valour and mickle might,
With sword by his side, which oft had been tri'd,
To fight and recover his right.

The first that he met was a bonny bold Scot,
His servant he said he would be.
No, quoth Robin Hood, it cannot be good,
For thou wilt prove false unto me;

Thou hast not been true to sire nor cuz.

Come listen awhile, you gentlemen all,
With a hey down, down, a down, down,
That are this bower within,
For a story of gallant bold Robin Hood,
I purpose now to begin.

What time of day? quod Robin Hood then.
Quoth Little John, 'Tis in the prime.
“Why then we will to the green wood gang,
For we have no vittles to dine.”

As Robin Hood walkt the forrest along,
It was in the mid of the day,
There he was met of a deft young man,
As ever walkt on the way.

His doublet was of silk ‘'tis’ said,

The torment of consuming thought,
That vulture of the breast,
Must bide with me till Death has brought
The benison of rest;
But when the weary watch I keep
In Time has past away,
Ah, let my sleep be long and deep,—
Forever and a day!

More ghost than man, a fleeting wraith,
Affrighted and aghast,
I wander 'mid the wrecks of faith
And ashes of the past:
Bleak o'er my life the winds that sweep
Have left it cold and gray;
Ah, let my sleep be long and deep,—
Forever and a day!

Laïs the fair, Laïs the tender-eyed
Whom half the men of Athens madly love
Is false as hell! to me her tongue hath lied
A thousand times; and thus my words i prove.

Thou knowest, creon, where her villa rears
Its marble front upon agea's shore:
'Twas given her by protus in those years
When sorrow claimed him not and grief forebore.

To touch the man whose slave all Athens was.
But when the red day came that protus fell,
The end to him was twice calamitous—
For losing Greece, he lost fair Laïs as well.

I speak with thee, and all is bright;
The sky is deeper blue, the night
Is rich with song though stars are still;
Thy thought with music doth the silence fill,
And all the firmament with light.

The clouds hang low and cold and white,
The morning air is chill despite
The splendours of the sun, until
I speak with thee.

But thou hast wings and ready flight
And when my thoughts with thine unite
I mount the thronéd skies; the thrill
Of perfect life is mine, so will
I speak with thee.

Underneath this greedy stone
Lies little sweet Erotion;
Whom the Fates, with hearts as cold,
Nipped away at six years old.
Thou, whoever thou may'st be,
That hast this small field after me,
Let the yearly rites be paid
To her little slender shade;
So shall no disease or jar
Hurt thy house, or chill thy Lar;
But this tomb here be alone,
The only melancholy stone.