Lucy Ashton's Song
Look not thou on beauty’s charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; Speak not when the people listens; Stop thine ear against the singer; From the red
It Was an English Ladye Bright
It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight, For Love will still be lord of all. Blithely they saw the rising sun
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
Brignall Banks
O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen: And as I rode by Dalton Hall, Beneath the turrets high,
Here's a Health to King Charles
Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; ‘Tis to him we love most, And to all who love him. Brave gallants, stand up, And avaunt ye, base carles! Were
The Truth of Woman
Woman’s faith, and woman’s trust – Write the characters in the dust; Stamp them on the running stream, Print them on the moon’s pale beam, And each evanescent letter Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
Harp of the North, Farewell!
Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending. Resume thy
Border Ballad
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above
Patriotism 02 Nelson, Pitt, Fox
TO mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears, And in her glory reappears. But oh, my Country’s wintry state What second spring shall renovate? What
Eleu Loro
Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden’s breast Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die Under the willow.
Rosabelle
O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay That mourns the lovely Rosabelle. ‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew! And, gentle
Hunter's Song
The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet, Hunters live so cheerily. It was a stag, a stag of ten,
A Serenade
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who trill’d all day, Sits hush’d