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And there lay the steed with his nostrils all wide,
And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry !
To row us o'er the ferry.'
This dark and stormy water?"
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
My blood would stain the heather.
“His horsemen hard behind us ride ;
Should they our steps discover,
When they have slain her lover?”
“I'll go, my chief, — I'm ready;
But for your winsome lady.
"And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
* But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
"Oh, haste thee, haste !” the lady cries,
“Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,-
The tempest gathered o'er her!
And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For, sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover;
And one was round her lover.
“Come back! come back !” he cried in grief,
“Across this stormy water; And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! Oh, my daughter !”
'Twas vain; the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing;
And he was left lamenting.
THE THREE FISHERS.
Three fishers went sailing out into the west,
Out into the west as the sun went down;
And the children stood watching them out of the town;
Though the harbor bar be moaning. Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower,
And trimmed the lamps as the sun went down; And they looked at the squall, and they looked at the
And the harbor bar be moaning.
In the morning gleam as the tide went down,
For those who will never come back to the town;
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning.
THE LOSS OF THE “ROYAL GEORGE.”
At the time of her loss in 1782 the “Royal George” was the finest line-of-battle ship in the British navy. While in harbor near Portsmouth, during some slight repairs, all the heavy guns were placed on one side and the vessel was heeled over, when a gust of wind caused her to capsize. Admiral Kempenfelt and eight hundred of his crew were drowned. This disaster was equalled by the loss of the British battleship Victoria in 1893.
Toll for the brave !
The brave that are no more !
Fast by their native shore !
Eight hundred of the brave,
Whose courage well was tried, Had made the vessel heel,
And laid her on her side.
A land breeze shook the shrouds,
And she was overset;
With all her crew complete.
Toll for the brave !
Brave Kempenfelt is gone; His last sea-fight is fought,
His work of glory done.
It was not in the battle;
No tempest gave the shock: She sprang no fatal leak;
She ran upon no rock.
His sword was in its sheath;
His fingers held the pen, When Kempenfelt went down,
With twice four hundred men.
Weigh the vessel up,
Once dreaded by our foes ! And mingle with our cup
The tears that Englaud owes.
Her timbers yet are sound,
And she may float again, Full charged with England's thunder,
And plough the distant main.
But Kempenfelt is gone,
His victories are o'er;
Shall plough the wave no more.
THE INCHCAPE ROCK.
No stir in the air, no stir in the sea,
Without either sign or sound of their shock,
The Abbot of Aberbrothok
The sun in heaven was shining gay;
The buoy of the Inchcape Bell was seen,
His eye was on the Inchcape float;