The clouds grew dark, and the wind grew loud, And the leven filled her e'e; And waesome wail'd the snow-white sprites Upon the gurlie sea.
He strack the tapmast wi' his hand, The foremast wi' his knee; And he brake that gallant ship in twain, And sank her in the sea.
The Love that I have chosen I'll therewith be content; The salt sea shall be frozen Before that I repent. Repent it shall I never Until the day I dee! But the Lawlands of Holland Have twinn'd my Love and me.
My Love he built a bonny ship, And set her to the main; With twenty-four brave mariners To sail her out and hame. But the weary wind began to rise, The sea began to rout, And my Love and his bonny ship Turn'd withershins about.
There shall no mantle cross my back, No comb go in my hair, Neither shall coal nor candle-light Shine in my bower mair; Nor shall I choose another Love Until the day I dee, Since the Lawlands of Holland Have twinn'd my Love and me.
'Now haud your tongue, my daughter dear, Be still, and bide content! There's other lads in Galloway; Ye needna sair lament.' --O there is none in Galloway, There's none at all for me:-- I never loved a lad but one, And he's drown'd in the sea.
_Once_ it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell: They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly from their azure towers To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay. _Now_ each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness. Nothing there is motionless-- Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude. Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides! Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet heaven Unceasingly, from morn till even. Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye-- Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave! They wave--from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops; They weep--from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.
_THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AT CORUNNA_
Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried.