Reliques of Ancient English Poetry: Consisting of Old Heroic Ballads, Songs, and Other Pieces of Our Earlier Poets; Together with Some Few of Later Date, Volume 3

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H. Washbourne and Company, 1857 - Ballads, English

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Page 392 - TWAS at the silent solemn hour, When night and morning meet ; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet. Her face was like an April morn, Clad in a wintry cloud : And clay-cold was her lily hand, That held her sable shrowd.
Page 335 - True; a new Mistresse now I chase, The first Foe in the Field; And with a stronger Faith imbrace A Sword, a Horse, a Shield. Yet this Inconstancy is such, As you too shall adore; I could not love thee (Deare) so much, Lov'd I not Honour more.
Page 397 - I hear a voice, you cannot hear, Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand, you cannot see, Which beckons me away.
Page 367 - St. George he was for England ; St. Dennis was for France ; Sing, Honi soit qui mal y pense.
Page 267 - Were footed in Queen Mary's days On many a grassy plain. But since of late Elizabeth, And, later, James came in, They never danced on any heath, As when the time hath bin.
Page 211 - He hath marks about him plenty; You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire. That, being shot like lightning in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.
Page 265 - IN olde dayes of the king Artour, Of which that Bretons speken gret honour, All was this lond fulfilled of faerie; The Elf-quene, with hire joly compagnie, Danced ful oft in many a grene mede. This was the old opinion as I rede...
Page 246 - Think what with them they would do That without them dare to woo ; And unless that mind I see, What care I how great she be ? Great, or good, or kind, or fair, I will ne'er the more despair: If she love me, this believe, I will die ere she shall grieve : If she slight me when I woo, I can scorn and let her go ; For if she be not for me, What care I for whom she be ? George Wither.
Page 176 - Allan." And slowly, slowly raise she up, And slowly, slowly left him, And sighing said, she could not stay, Since death of life had reft him. She had not gane a mile but twa, When she heard the dead-bell ringing, And every jow that the dead-bell geid, It cry'd, "Woe to Barbara Allan!

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