But yonder when the wind is keen, The merchant city's spires are seen, Along the coast-way grind the wheels Of endless carts of coal; And on the sides of giant keels The world creeps here upon the shout, Strong and alone, my dove, with thee; I would not change my sorrow sweet I love the daisies at thy feet More than their orange flowers. My hand alone shall tend thy tomb From leaf-bud to leaf-fall, And wreathe around each season's bloom Till autumn ruins all. Let snowdrops early in the year Droop o'er her silent breast; And bid the later cowslip rear The amber of its crest. Come hither, linnets tufted-red; Drift by, O wailing tern; Grow, samphire, at the tidal brink, Wave pansies of the shore, To whisper how alone I think Of her for evermore. The Churchyard on the Sands 1069 Bring blue sea-hollies thorny, keen, Gray wormwood like a hoary queen, O sea-wall, mounded long and low, Nor float its sea-weed to her hair, Though thy crest feel the wild sea's breath, Oh, guard the treasure-house, where death Though cold her pale lips to reward Ah, rob no daisy from her sward, Ah, render sere no silken bent That by her head-stone waves; Let noon and golden summer blent Pervade these ocean graves. And, ah, dear heart, in thy still nest, Sleep and forget all things but one, Until I rest by thee. John Byrne Leicester Warren [1835-1895) THE MINSTREL'S SONG From "Ella" OH sing unto my roundelay; Oh drop the briny tear with me; Dance no more at holiday; Like a running river be! My love is dead, Gone to his death-bed, All under the willow tree! Black his hair as the winter night, White his throat as the summer snow Red his cheek as the morning light, Cold he lies in the grave below. Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note; Quick in dance as thought can be; Deft his tabor, cudgel stout, Oh, he lies by the willow tree. Hark! the raven flaps his wing See! the white moon shines on high; Whiter than the evening cloud. Here, upon my true love's grave, Shall the barren flowers be laid Not one holy saint to save All the coldness of a maid. With my hands I'll twist the briers Round his holy corpse to gre; Elfin fairy, light your fires, Here my body still shall be. Highland Mary Come, with acorn-cup and thorn, Dance by night, or feast by day. Water-witches, crowned with reeds, 1071 Thomas Chatterton [1752-1770] HIGHLAND MARY YE banks and braes and streams around The castle o' Montgomery, Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, There simmer first unfauld her robes, And there the langest tarry; For there I took the last fareweel How sweetly bloomed the gay green birk,. As underneath their fragrant shade Was my sweet Highland Mary. Wi' mony a vow and locked embrace We tore oursels asunder; But, O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipped my flower sae early! O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kissed sae fondly! And closed for aye the sparkling glance And moldering now in silent dust But still within my bosom's core Robert Burns [1759-1796] TO MARY IN HEAVEN THOU lingering star, with lessening ray, My Mary from my soul was torn. O Mary! dear departed shade! Where is thy place of blissful rest? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? That sacred hour can I forget, Can I forget the hallowed grove, Where by the winding Ayr we met, To live one day of parting love! Eternity will not efface Those records dear of transports past; Thy image at our last embrace, Ah! little thought we 'twas our last! Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore, O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green; The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, The flowers sprang wanton to be pressed, |