English Songs and Ballads Part 49

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye!

Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and oh, The difference to me!

I TRAVELLED AMONG UNKNOWN MEN

I travell'd among unknown men, In lands beyond the sea; Nor, England! did I know till then What love I bore to thee.

'Tis past, the melancholy dream!

Nor will I quit thy sh.o.r.e A second time; for still I seem To love thee more and more.

Among thy mountains did I feel The joy of my desire; And she I cherish'd turn'd her wheel Beside an English fire.

Thy mornings show'd, thy nights conceal'd, The bowers where Lucy play'd; And thine too is the last green field That Lucy's eyes survey'd.

LOCHINVAR

SIR WALTER SCOTT

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broad-sword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske river where ford there was none; But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, Among bride's-men and kinsmen, and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), 'O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?'

'I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;-- Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide-- And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.'

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup, She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,-- 'Now tread we a measure!' said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume; And the bride-maidens whispered, "Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.'

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung!

'She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing, and chasing, on Cann.o.bie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.

So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

CORONACH

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest, The font, reappearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow, But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are h.o.a.ry, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing, Waft the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi, Sage counsel in c.u.mber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever!

A WEARY LOT IS THINE

'A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine!

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green,-- No more of me you knew, My love!

No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow, Ere we two meet again.'

He turned his charger as he spake, Upon the river sh.o.r.e, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My love!

And adieu for evermore.'

ALLEN-A-DALE

Allen-a-Dale has no f.a.got for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.

Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side.

The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale, Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our n.o.bles his bonnet will veil, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother, she asked of his household and home: 'Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall,' quoth bold Allen, 'shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles!' said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel, and the mother was stone; They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry: He had laughed on the la.s.s with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.