The Blue Poetry Book

We can show the marks he made,
When ’gainst the oak his antlers fray’d;
You shall see him brought to bay —
‘Waken, lords and ladies gay.’

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we;
Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay!

    Sir W. Scott.

LORD ULLIN’S DAUGHTER

A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, ‘Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o’er the ferry.’

‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?’
’O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. —

‘And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

‘His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?’

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
‘I’ll go, my chief – I’m ready;
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

‘And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white,
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’ —

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;[1 - The evil spirit of the waters.]
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer. —

‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries,
‘Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.’ —

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her, —
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gather’d o’er her.

And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,
His wrath was changed to wailing. —

For sore dismay’d, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover: —
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.

‘Come back! come back!’ he cried in grief,
‘Across this stormy water:
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! – oh my daughter!’ —

‘Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing; —
The waters wild went o’er his child, —
And he was left lamenting.

    T. Campbell.

THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, ‘’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,