Sir Walter Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Volumen3

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W. Blackwood and sons, 1902
 

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Página 57 - O WHERE hae ye been Lord Randal, my son ? O where hae ye been, my handsome young man?"— " I hae been to the wild wood ; mother make my bed soon, For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down."— " Where gat ye your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? » Where gat ye your dinner, my handsome young man?
Página 322 - Blow up the fire, my maidens! Bring water from the well! For a' my house shall feast this night, Since my three sons are well.
Página 57 - What gat ye to your dinner, Lord Randal, my son? What gat ye to your dinner, my handsome young man?" "I gat eels boiled in broo; mother, make my bed soon. For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain wald lie down.
Página 58 - OI fear ye are poisond, Lord Randal, my son! OI fear ye are poisond, my handsome young man! " " O yes! I am poisond; mother, make my bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wald lie down.
Página 7 - They lighted down to tak a drink Of the spring that ran sae clear ; And down the stream ran his gude heart's blood, And sair she gan to fear. " Hold up, hold up, Lord William...
Página 321 - THERE lived a wife at Usher's Well, And a wealthy wife was she ; She had three stout and stalwart sons, And sent them oer the sea. They hadna...
Página 117 - I wish I were where Helen lies; Night and day on me she cries; And I am weary of the skies, For her sake that died for me.
Página 128 - O that I were where Helen lies! Night and day on me she cries ; Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says "Haste and come to me!
Página 127 - Curst be the heart that thought the thought, And curst the hand that fired the shot, When in my arms burd Helen dropt, And died to succour me ! 0 think na ye my heart was sair, When my love dropt down and spak nae mair There did she swoon wi' meikle care, On fair Kirconnell Lee.
Página 405 - Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border ! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day ; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay. We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking; Women and bairns are heartless and wae; Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning — The Flowers of the Forest are a

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