Breathes there the man, with soul… Who never to himself hath said, ‘This is my own, my native land!’ Whose heart hath ne’er within him… As home his footsteps he hath turn…

Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I’ll wed ye to my youngest son, And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

O, will you hear a knightly tale o… It was the noble Moringer in wedl… He halsed and kiss’d his dearest d… And said, ‘Now, lady of my heart,… II.

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush, Singing so rarely. ‘Tell me, thou bonny bird,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bow… The breeze is on the sea. The lark his lay who thrill’d all…

The train has left the hills of B… The barrier guard have open made (So Lindesay bade) the palisade, That closed the tented ground; Their men the warders backward dre…

Merrily swim we, the moon shines b… Both current and ripple are dancin… We have roused the night raven, I… As we plashed along beneath the oa… That flings its broad branches so…

I climbed the dark brow of the mig… Lakes and mountains beneath me gle… All was still, save by fits, when… And starting around me the echoes… On the right, Striding-edge round…

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her father’s God before her moved… An awful Guide, in smoke and flam… By day, along the astonished lands

Dust unto dust, To this all must; The tenant hath resign’d The faded form To waste and worm– Corruption claims her kind.

BREATHES there the man with so… Who never to himself hath said, ‘This is my own, my native land!’ Whose heart hath ne’er within him… As home his footsteps he hath turn…

If thou would’st view fair Melros… Go visit it by the pale moonlight; For the gay beams of lightsome day Gild, but to flout, the ruins grey… When the broken arches are black i…

CORONACH He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest.

Glowing with love, on fire for fam… A Troubadour that hated sorrow Beneath his lady’s window came, And thus he sung his last good-mor… ‘My arm it is my country’s right,

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