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

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W. Blackwood and sons, 1902
 

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Página 386 - But if fond love thy heart can gain, I never broke a vow ; Nae maiden lays her skaith to me, I never loved but you. For you alone I ride the ring, For you I wear the blue ; For you alone I strive to sing, O tell me how to woo ! Then tell me how to woo thee, Love ; O tell me how to woo thee ! For thy dear sake, nae care I'll take, Tho ne'er another trow me.
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 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 113 - I watch'd his body night and day ; No living creature came that way. I took his body on my back, And whiles I gaed, and whiles I sat ; I digg'da grave, and laid him in, And happ'd him with the sod sae green. But think na ye my heart was sair, When I laid the moul...
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 6 - For your strokes they are wondrous sair; True lovers I can get many a ane, But a father I can never get mair.
Página 305 - The guarded gold : so eagerly the fiend O'er bog, or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues his way And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies...

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