I wish my grave were growing green, A winding-sheet drawn ower my e'en, And I in Helen's arms lying On fair Kirkconnell lea.
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.
[XXXII]
THE TWA CORBIES
As I was walking all alane, I heard twa corbies making a mane: The tane unto the tither say, ‘Where sall we gang and dine the day?’
‘In behint yon auld fail dyke I wot there lies a new-slain knight; And naebody kens that he lies there But his hawk, his hound, and his lady fair.
His hound is to the hunting gane, His hawk to fetch the wild-fowl hame, His lady's ta'en another mate, Sae we may mak' our dinner sweet.
Ye'll sit on his white hause-bane, And I'll pike out his bonny blue e'en: Wi' ae lock o' his gowden hair We'll theek our nest when it grows bare.
Mony a one for him makes mane, But nane sall ken where he is gane: O'er his white banes, when they are bare, The wind sall blaw for evermair.’
[XXXIII]
THE BARD
‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest's crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor e'en thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!’ Such were the sounds that o'er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance; ‘To arms!’ cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.