Fugitive verses

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Edward Moxon, Dover Street., 1842 - 58 pages
 

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Page 25 - E'en tak' to your wheel and be clever. And draw out your thread in the sun; The gear that is gifted, it never Will last like the gear that is won. Woo'd and married and a'!
Page 6 - It is a goodly sight through the clear air, From Hampstead's heathy height to see at once England's vast capital in fair expanse, Towers, belfries, lengthened streets, and structures fair, St Paul's high dome amidst the vassal bands Of neighbouring spires, a regal chieftain stands, And over fields of ridgy roofs appear, With distance softly tinted, side by side, In kindred grace, like twain of sisters dear, The Towers of Westminster, her Abbey's pride; While, far beyond, the hills of Surrey shine...
Page 15 - And rarely turns a lettered page ; Upon her hearth for thee lets fall The rounded cork, or paper ball, Nor chides thee on thy...
Page 25 - The bride she is winsome and bonny, Her hair it is snooded sae sleek, And faithfu' and kind is her Johnny, Yet fast fa' the tears on her cheek. New pearlins' are cause of her sorrow, New pearlins and plenishing too ; The bride that has a' to borrow Has e'en right mickle ado. Woo'd and married and a...
Page 32 - I canna' hear. Oh no ! sad and slow, The shadow lingers still, And like a lanely ghaist I stand And croon upon the hill. I hear below the water roar, The mill wi' clackling din, And Lucky scolding frae her door, To ca
Page 25 - And for evermore that lady wore A covering on her wrist. There is a nun in Dryburgh bower, Ne'er looks upon the sun : There is a monk in Melrose tower, He speaketh word to none. That nun, who ne'er beholds the day, That monk, who speaks to none — That nun was Smaylho'me's Lady gay, That monk the bold Baron.
Page 19 - To hear thy morning steps the stair descending, Thy voice with other sounds domestic blending; After each stated nightly absence, met, 'To see thee by the morning table set, Pouring from smoky spout the amber stream Which sends from...
Page 38 - O welcome all ! to me ye say, My woodland love is on her way. Upon the soft wind floats her hair, Her breath is in the dewy air, Her steps are in the whisper'd sound That steals along the stilly ground.
Page 14 - IN the rough blast heaves the billow, In the light air waves the willow; Every thing of moving kind Varies with the veering wind ; What have I to do with thee, Dull, unjoyous Constancy ? Sombre tale and satire witty, Sprightly glee and doleful ditty...
Page 15 - The ends of ravell'd skein to catch, But lets thee have thy wayward will, Perplexing oft her sober skill. Even he, whose mind of gloomy bent, In lonely tower or prison pent, Reviews the coil of former days, And loathes the world and all its ways ; What time the lamp's...

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