| Share page | Visit Us On FB |
|
132 |
SONGS FOR GIRLHOOD. |
|||
|
Or what did ye hear that was worth your heed ?
I heard the cushies croon
Thro' the gowden afternoon, And the quair burn singin' down to the vale o' Tweed.
And birks saw I three or four,
Wi' gray moss bearded owre, The last that are left o' the birken shaw,
Whar mony a simmer e'en
Fond lovers did convene, Thae bonny, bonny gloamins that are lang awa\
Frae mony a but and ben,
By muirland, holm, and glen, They cam' an hour to spend on the greenwood sward;
But lang hae lad an' lass
Been lying 'neath the grass, The green, green grass o' Traquair kirk-yard.
They were blest beyond compare,
When they held their trysting there, Amang thae greenest hills shone on by the sun ;
And then they wan a rest,
The lownest and the best, I' Traquair kirk-yard when a' was dune.
Now the birks to dust may rot,
Names o' luvers be forgot, Nae lads and lasses there ony more convene;
But the blithe lilt o' yon air
Keeps the bush aboon Traquair, And the luve that ance was there, aye fresh and green! |
My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither.
With modest eyes downcast
She comes�she's here�she's past-May Heaven go with her!
Kneel undisturbed, fair saint! Pour out your praise or plaint
Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.
But suffer me to pace Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits who wait, And see through heaven's gate
Angels within it. |
|||
|
APPRENTICED.
Jean Lngelow.
" Come out and hear the waters shoot, the owlet hoot, the owlet hoot; Yon crescent moon, a golden boat, hangs dim behind the tree, O! The dropping thorn makes white the grass, O sweetest lass, and sweetest lass! Come out and smell the ricks of hay adown the croft with me, O!"
" My granny nods before her wheel, and drops her reel, and drops her reel; My father with his crony talks as gay as gay can be, O! But all the milk is yet to skim, ere light wax dim, ere light wax dim; How can I step adown the croft, my 'prentice lad, with thee, O!"
" And must ye bide ? Yet waiting's long, and love is strong, and love is strong; And, oh, had I but served the time that takes so long to flee, O! And thou, my lass, by morning's light wast all in white, wast all in white, And parson stood within the rails, a-marrying me and thee, O!" |
||||
|
AT THE CHURCH GATE.
William Makepeace Thackebat.
Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate, With longing eyes I wait,
Expectant of her.
The minster bell tolls out Above the city's rout,
And noise, and humming; They've stopped the chiming bell; I hear the organ's swell;
She's coming, coming! |
||||