Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— 20
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.”
The bride kiss’d the goblet: the knight took it up, 25
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look’d down to blush, and she look’d up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye,
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,—