So, let his name through Europe ring A man of mean estate Who died, as firm as Sparta's king, Because his soul was great. F. H. Doyle XCV THE SANDS OF DEE 'O Mary, go and call the cattle home,- The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam, The creeping tide came up along the sand, And round and round the sand, As far as eye could see ; The blinding mist came down and hid the land— And never home came she. 'Oh, is it weed or fish or floating hair- O' drownéd maiden's hair, Was never salmon yet that shone so fair They row'd her in across the rolling foam, The cruel hungry foam, To her grave beside the sea: But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home, Across the sands o' Dee. C. Kingsley XCVI LOST ON SCHIHALLION Shepherd Oh wherefore cam ye here, Ailie? Late and lane on this bleak muir and eerie, A wild place this to be For a body frail as ye, Wi' the nicht and yon storm-clouds sae near ye. Ailie Oh dinna drive me back, I canna leave my track, Though nicht and the tempest should close o'er me. The warld I've left behind, And there's nocht I care to find Save Schihallion and high heaven that are afore me. Shepherd Oh speak nae word o' driving, For the thing that canna be, puir Ailie? Where the peat-fires bienly burn, Ailie The warld below is cauld and bare, And there's only One can bless me, Shepherd Schihallion's sides sae solid and steep, What mortal would dream the nicht o' scaling? Gin the heart pray below, From nae mountain-top will go Your prayer to heaven with cry more prevailing. Ailie Weak am I and frail, I ken, But there's might that's not of men To bear me up-sae na mair entreat me ; Be the snow-drifts ne'er sae deep, I have got a tryst to keep Wi' the angels that up yonder wait to meet me. The Shepherd home is gone, And she went on alone; Night cam, but she cam not to Bohalie ; Neist day and then the neist Stiff with ice her limbs and hair, And they knew her soul was safe In the home for which sae lang she had been yearning. J. C. Shairt XCVII THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RAVELSTON The murmur of the mourning ghost That keeps the shadowy kine ;— Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Ravelston, Ravelston, The merry path that leads Ravelston, Ravelston, The stile beneath the tree, The maid that kept her mother's kine, She sang her song, she kept her kine, When Andrew Keith of Ravelston His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! Year after year, where Andrew came, Her misty hair is faint and fair, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, I lay my hand upon the stile, Yet, stranger! here, from year to year, Oh, Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line! She makes her immemorial moan, The sorrows of thy line! S. Dobell XCVIII MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS When the young hand of Darnley lock'd in hers Had knit her to her northern doom-amid The spousal pomp of flags and trumpeters, Her fate look'd forth and was no longer hid A jealous brain beneath a southern crown Wrought spells upon her; from afar she felt The waxen image of her fortunes melt Beneath the Tudor's eye, while the grim frown Of her own lords o'ermaster'd her sweet smilesAnd nipt her growing gladness, till she mourn'd, And sank, at last, beneath their cruel wiles; But, ever since, all generous hearts have burn'd To clear her fame, yea, very babes have yearn'd Over this saddest story of the isles. XCIX C. Tennyson-Turner THE FORSAKEN MERMAN Come, dear children, let us away; Now my brothers call from the bay, This way, this way! Call her once before you goCall once yet! In a voice that she will know : 'Margaret! Margaret!' Children's voices should be dear (Call once more) to a mother's ear; |