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“ O they swell'd and they died ; mother, make my
For I'm weary wi' hunting, and fain would lie
“O I fear ye are poison'd, Lord Randal, my son ! O I fear ye are poison'd, my handsome young man!" O yes, I am poison'd! mother, make
bed soon, For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain would lie down."
Scott's Border Minstrelsy.
WEET after showers, ambrosial air,
That rollest from the gorgeous gloom
The round of space, and rapt below
Through all the dewy-tassell'd wood,
And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow
The fever from my cheek, and sigh
The full new life that feeds thy breath
Throughout my frame till Doubt and Death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly
From belt to belt of crimson seas
On leagues of odour streaming far,
To where in yonder orient star
Still, for all slips of hers,
Loop up her tresses Escaped from the comb, Her fair auburn tresses ; Whilst wonderment guesses Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Alas! for the rarity
Where the lamps quiver
With many a light
The bleak wind of March
In she plunged boldly, No matter how coldly The rough river ran,Over the brink of it ; Picture it—think of it, Dissolute man !
Drout of its lare mit Navel
Take her up tenderly, Lift her with care ; Fashion'd so slenderly, Young, and so fair !
Ere her limbs frigidly