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Page 19 - I'll wage thee! Who shall say that Fortune grieves him While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy; Naething could resist my Nancy; But to see her was to love her, Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met - or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Page 290 - I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love ! " Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past ; Thy image at our last embrace ; Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! " Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening, green, The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, Twin'd amorous round the raptured scene.
Page 234 - But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Page 289 - Time but the impression stronger makes, As streams their channels deeper wear. My Mary, dear departed shade ! Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ? Vol.
Page 290 - Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes, And fondly broods with miser care ! Time but the impression deeper makes, As streams their channels deeper wear.
Page 234 - I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied; — Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide,- And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.
Page 246 - Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving : There, while the tempests sway, Scarce are boughs waving...
Page liv - At the end of the seventeenth and the beginning of the eighteenth century...
Page 131 - I've heard them lilting, at our ewe-milking Lasses a' lilting before dawn of day : But now they are moaning, on ilka green loaning, The Flowers of the forest are a