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Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west. Through all the wide Border his steed was the best, And save his good broadsword he weapons had none; He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He stayed not for brake, and he stopped not for stone, He swam the Eske River where ford there was none; But ere he alighted at Netherby gate The bride had consented, the gallant came late: For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen and kinsmen and brothers and all: Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word), “Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?” “I long woo’d your daughter, my suit you denied;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— 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 kissed the goblet; the knight took it up; He quaffed of the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked 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,— “Now tread we a measure!” said young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, And the bridemaidens whispered, “’Twere better by far To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.” One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,” quoth young Lochinvar. There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran: There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar? |
Sir Walter Scott.
Lord Ullin’s Daughter.
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A chieftain, to the Highlands bound, Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I’ll give thee a silver pound, To row us o’er the ferry.” “Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?” “O, I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle, And this Lord Ullin’s daughter. “And fast before her father’s men Three days we’ve fled together, For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather. “His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride When they have slain her lover?” Outspoke the hardy Highland wight, “I’ll go, my chief—I’m ready; It is not for your silver bright, But for your winsome lady: “And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry; So though the waves are raging white, 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 armèd men, Their trampling sounded nearer. “O 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,— When, oh! too strong for human hand, The tempest gathered o’er her. And still they row’d amid the roar Of waters fast prevailing: Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore, His wrath was changed to wailing. For sore dismay’d through storm and shade, His child he did discover:— One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid, 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;— The waters wild went o’er his child,— And he was left lamenting. |
Thomas Campbell.
The Charge of the Light Brigade.
“The Charge of the Light Brigade” (1809-92) unlike “Casabianca” shows obedience under stern necessity. Obedience is the salvation of any army. John Burroughs says: “I never hear that poem but what it thrills me through and through.”
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Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!” he said: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. “Forward, the Light Brigade!” Was there a man dismay’d? Not tho’ the soldier knew Some one had blunder’d: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley’d and thunder’d; Storm’d at with shot and shell Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Flash’d all their sabers bare, Flash’d as they turn’d in air Sab’ring the gunners there, Charging an army, while All the world wonder’d: Plunged in the battery-smoke Right thro’ the line they broke; Cossack and Russian Reel’d from the saber-stroke Shatter’d and sunder’d. Then they rode back, but not Not the six hundred. Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon behind them Volleyed and thundered: Stormed at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came through the jaws of death Back from the mouth of hell, All that was left of them— Left of six hundred. When can their glory fade? Oh, the wild charge they made! All the world wondered. Honour the charge they made! Honour the Light Brigade— Noble six hundred! |
Alfred Tennyson.