And still they row’d amidst 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.
T. Campbell.
[ THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER]
When my mother died I was very young, And my father sold me while yet my tongue Could scarcely cry, ‘’weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’ So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.
There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, That curl’d like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said, ‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare, You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’