Oh, lang, lang may the ladyes sit,
Wi' their fans into their hand, Before they see Sir Patrick Spens
Come sailing to the strand.
And lang, lang may the maidens sit,
Wi’ the goud kaims in their hair, A' waiting for their ain dear loves,
For them they 'll see na mair.
Oh, forty miles off Aberdour,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep, And there lies gude Sir Patrick Spens, Wi' the Scots lords at his feet.
Unknown.
FOR the tender beech and the sapling oak,
That grow by the shadowy rill,
You may cut down both at a single stroke,
You may cut down which
you
will.
But this you must know, that as long as they
grow,
Whatever change may be,
You can never teach either oak or beech
To be aught but a greenwood tree.
Thomas Love Peacock. i Note 9,
YE Mariners of Eugland
That guard our native seas !
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze !
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe :
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave,
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their
grave
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy winds do blow ;
While the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
Britannia needs no bulwarks,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below,
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy winds do blow ;
When the battle rages loud and long
And the stormy winds do blow.
The meteor-flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;
Till danger's troubled night depart
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors !
and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
Thomas Campbell
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
Long has it waved on high, And many an eye
has danced to see That banner in the sky; Beneath it rung the battle shout,
And burst the cannon's roar; The meteor of the ocean air
Shall the clouds no more.
Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
Where knelt the vanquished foe, When winds were hurrying o'er the flood, And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
Or know the conquered knee ; The harpies of the shore shall pluck
The eagle of the sea !
Oh, better that her shattered hulk
Should sink beneath the wave;
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
Set
every
threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
The lightning and the gale!
Oliver Wendell Holmes.
HEAR what Highland Nora said, 6 The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valor lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.”
“A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
“Are lightly made, and lightly broke ;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae ;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son."
“The swan,” she said, “ the lake's clear breast.
May barter for the eagle's nest ;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly ;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son."
Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turned the heel :
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
She's wedded to the Earlie's son !
Sir Walter Scott.
“SPEAK! speak! thou fearful guest!
Who, with thy hollow breast
Still in rude armor drest,
Comest to daunt me!
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