I look'd without, and lo! my son

Came riding down with might and main ;
He raised a shout as he drew on,
Till all the welkin rang again.
"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

(A sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my son's wife Elizabeth.)

"The old sea-wall," he cried,-" is down;
The rising tide comes on apace ;
And boats adrift in yonder town
Go sailing up the market-place."

He shook as one that looks on death. "God save you, mother!" straight he saith,— "Where is my wife Elizabeth?"

"Good son! where Lindis winds away,
With her two bairns I mark'd her long;
And ere yon bells began to play
Afar I heard her milking song."
He look'd across the grassy lea,
To right, to left, "Ho Enderby!"
They rang "The Brides of Enderby!”

With that he cried, and beat his breast;
For lo! along the river's bed
A mighty eygre rear'd his crest,
And up the Lindis raging sped.

It swept with thunderous noises loud,-
Shaped like a curling snow-white cloud,
Or like a demon in a shroud.

And rearing Lindis, backward press'd,
Shook all her trembling banks amain ;
Then madly at the eygre's breast
Flung up her weltering walls again.

Then banks came down with ruin and rout,

The beaten foam flew round about;

Then all the mighty floods were out.

So far, so fast, the eygre drave,
The heart had hardly time to beat
Before the shallow seething wave
Sobb'd in the grasses at our feet;
The feet had hardly time to flee
Before it brake against the knee,
And all the world was in the sea.

Upon the roof we sat that night,—
The noise of bells went sweeping by ;
I mark'd the lofty beacon light

Stream from the church-tower, red and high,
A lurid mark, and dread to see :
And awesome bells they were to me
That in the dark rang "Enderby!"

And didst thou visit him no more!-
Thou didst, thou didst, my daughter dear!
The waters laid thee at his door

Ere yet the early dawn was clear :
Thy pretty bairns in fast embrace,
The lifted sun shone on thy face,
Down-drifted to thy dwelling-place.

That flow strew'd wrecks about the grass;
That ebb swept out the flocks to sea :

A fatal ebb and flow, alas!

To many more than mine and me.

But each will mourn his own (she saith),
And sweeter woman ne'er drew breath
Than my son's wife Elizabeth.

I shall never hear her more By the reedy Lindis shore "Cusha! Cusha! Cusha!" calling Ere the early dews be falling; I shall never hear her song"Cusha! Cusha!" all along

Where the sunny Lindis floweth,
Goeth, floweth ;

From the meads where melick groweth,
Where the water winding down

Onward floweth to the town.

I shall never see her more

Where the reeds and rushes quiver,
Shiver, quiver,

Stand beside the sobbing river,
Sobbing, throbbing, in its falling
To the sandy lonesome shore;
I shall never hear her calling-
86 Leave your meadow grasses mellow,
Mellow, mellow!

Quit your cowslips, cowslips yellow!
Come up, White-foot! come up, Light-foot!
Quit your pipes of parsley hollow,

Hollow, hollow!

Come up, Light-foot rise and follow!
Light-foot! White-foot !

From your clovers lift your head!

Come up, Jetty! follow, follow,

Jetty! to the milking shed."

SYDNEY THOMPSON DOBELL.

1824-1874.

KEITH OF RAVELSTON.

The murmur of the mourning ghost
That keeps the shadowy kine,—

“O, Keith of Ravelston !

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston! Ravelston!

The merry path that leads

C

Down the golden morning hill,
And through the silver meads.

Ravelston! Ravelston!

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,
The song that sang she.

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston

Rode through the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,

His belted jewels shine!

"O, Keith of Ravelston!

The sorrows of thy line!"

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;

"O, Keith of Ravelston!

The sorrows of thy line!"

I lay my hand upon the stile,
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by

Says nought that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

"O, Keith of Ravelston!

The sorrows of thy line!"

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood!

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone,
'Tis not the burn I hear.

She makes her immemorial moan,
She keeps her shadowy kine;

"O, Keith of Ravelston!

The sorrows of thy line!"

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

1828-1876.

THE CAVALIER'S ESCAPE.

Trample, trample, went the roan,

Trap, trap, went the grey;

But pad, pad, PAD, like a thing that was mad,
My chestnut broke away!

It was just five miles from Salisbury town,
And but one hour to day.

Thud, thud, came on the roan,

Rap, rap, the mettled grey;

But my chestnut mare was of blood so rare,
That she show'd them all the way.

Spur on! spur on! I doff'd my hat,
And wish'd them all good day!

They splash'd through miry rut and pool,
Splinter'd through fence and rail;
But chestnut Kate switch'd over the gate;
I saw them droop and tail.

To Salisbury town but a mile of down,
Once over this brook and rail.

Trap, trap, I heard their echoing hoofs
Past the walls of mossy stone;
The roan flew on at a staggering pace.
But blood is better than bone.