HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to
the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need
was the sorest.
The font re-appearing,
From the rain-drops
shall borrow;
But to us comes no cheering,
To Duncan no morrow!
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears
that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood
in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Wafts the leaves
that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting
was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie,
Sage counsel in
cumber,
Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy
slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam
on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone,
and for ever.
[81] “The Lady of the Lake,” canto third.
A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]
“A weary lot is thine,
fair maid,
A weary lot is
thine!
To pull the thorn thy brow
to braid,
And press the
rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier’s
mien,
A feather of the
blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green,
No more of me
ye knew, my love!
No more of me
ye knew.
“This morn is merry
June, I trow,
The rose is budding
fain;
But she shall bloom in winter
snow,
Ere we two meet
again.”
He turn’d his charger
as he spake,
Upon the river
shore,
He gave his bridle-reins a
shake,
Said, “Adieu
for evermore, my love!
And adieu for
evermore.”
[82] “Rokeby,” canto third.
ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]
Allen-a-Dale has no faggot
for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow
for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece
for the spinning,
Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold
for the winning;
Come, read me my riddle! come,
hearken my tale!
And tell me the craft of bold
Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances
in pride,
And he views his domains upon
Arkindale side,
The mere for his net, and
the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and
the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake and
the deer of the vale
Are less free to Lord Dacre
than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne’er
belted a knight,
Though his spur be as sharp,
and his blade be as bright;
Allen-a-Dale is no baron or
lord,
Yet twenty tall yeomen will
draw at his word;
And the best of our nobles
his bonnet will vail,
Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore
meets Allen-a-Dale.