Poems on Several Occasions

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W. Gordon, 1760 - English poetry - 262 pages

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Page 70 - My love, as he had not been a lover. The boy put on his robes, his robes of green, His purple vest, 'twas my ain sewing; Ah!
Page 59 - O'erspread with rising blushes, A thousand various ways they speak A thousand various wishes. For, oh ! that form so heavenly fair, Those languid eyes so sweetly smiling, That artless blush and modest air So fatally beguiling ; Thy every look, and every grace, So charm, whene'er I view thee, Till death o'ertake me in the chase Still will my hopes pursue thee.
Page 71 - But who the expected husband husband is? His hands, methinks, are bath'd in slaughter, Ah me! what ghastly spectre's yon, Comes, in his pale shroud, bleeding after. Pale as he is, here lay him lay him down, O lay his cold head on my pillow; Take aff take aff these bridal weids, And crown my careful head with willow. Pale tho...
Page 69 - Yarrow's bank the gowan, Fair hangs the apple frae the rock, Sweet the wave of Yarrow flowan. Flows Yarrow sweet? as sweet, as sweet flows Tweed. As green its grass, its gowan yellow, As sweet smells on its braes the birk, The apple frae the rock as mellow.
Page 69 - Curse ye, curse ye, his useless, useless shield, My arm that wrought the deed of sorrow, The fatal spear that pierced his breast, His comely breast on the Braes of Yarrow.
Page 68 - Tis he the comely swain I slew Upon the duleful Braes of Yarrow. Wash, O wash his wounds his wounds in tears, His wounds in tears, with dule and sorrow, And wrap his limbs in mourning weids, And lay him on the Braes of Yarrow.
Page 61 - Gentle to all, but kind to me, Such be mine, if such there be. Whose genuine thoughts devoid of art, Are all the natives of her heart; A simple train, from falsehood free, Such the maid that's made for me.
Page 70 - But ere the to-fall of the night He lay a corpse on the braes of Yarrow. ' Much I rejoiced, that woeful, woeful day; I sang, my voice the woods returning ; But lang ere night the spear was flown That slew my love and left me mourning.
Page 71 - May bid me seek on Yarrow Braes My luver nailed in his coffin. My brother Douglas may upbraid, And strive with threatning words to muve me, My luver's blood is on thy spear, How can'st thou ever bid me luve thee? Yes yes, prepare the bed, the bed of luve, With bridal sheets my body cover, Unbar ye bridal maids the door, Let in the expected husband lover.
Page 40 - But when the beauteous white and red From the pale afhy cheek is fled ; When wrinkles dire, and Age fevere, Make Beauty fly we know not where : The Fair whom Fates unkind difarm, Have they for ever ceas'd to charm ? Or is there left fome pleafing art, To keep...

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