The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott, Bart. ...

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Robert Cadell, 1833
 

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Стр. 124 - 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...
Стр. 125 - While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.
Стр. 125 - The bride kissed the goblet : the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, 'Now tread we a measure !
Стр. 11 - ... to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear, And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear. "Hold up, hold up, Lord William...
Стр. 316 - But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue; For you alone...
Стр. 261 - Blow up the fire, my maidens, Bring water from the well; For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.
Стр. 103 - 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.
Стр. 104 - O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste and come to me!
Стр. 11 - O hold your hand, Lord William!" she said, "For your strokes they are wondrous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair.
Стр. 313 - O gin my love were yon red rose That grows upon the castle wa', And I mysel' a drap o' dew, Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! Oh, there beyond expression blest. I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus

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