Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 128.djvu/396

This page has been proofread, but needs to be validated.





Gaelic AirF'hir a bhata - "The Boat of my Lover."

O Boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
O boat of my lover, that bears him from me!
From the homes of the clachan, from the burn singing sweetly,
From the loch and the mountain, that he'll never more see.

O boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
Thou bearest my soul with thee over the tide.
I said not a word, but my heart it was breaking,
For life is so short, and the ocean so wide.

O boat of my lover, go softly, go safely;
Though the dear voice is silent, the kind hand is gone:
But oh, love me, my lover! and I'll live till I find thee;
Till our parting is over, and our dark days are done.

Welsh Air – "Waters of Elle."

Deep in the valley, afar from every beholder,
In the May morning my true love came to me:
Silent we sate, her head upon my shoulder;
Fondly we dreamed of the days about to be:
Fondly we dreamed of the days so soon to be.

Deep in the valley, the rain falls colder and colder:
Safely she sleeps beneath the churchyard tree:
Yet still I feel her head upon my shoulder,
Yet still I dream of the days that could not be:
Yet still I weep o'er the days that will not be.

Good Words.


Follow, follow, little sheep,
O'er the dreary wold;
Follow, soon ye all shall sleep,
Safe from wet and cold.

Linger not, oh! lagging feet!
Night will soon be here;
Weary shepherd fain would greet
Wife and children dear.

In his cot the fire burns bright,
Supper's ready laid;
Baby waits to say good-night,
Ere he goes to bed.

Little ones run in and out,
Watch beside the gate;
"What can father be about,
That he's home so late?"

Mother makes the ashes blaze,
Baby smiles to see;
Tells them how some wanderer strays
From the flock and me.

Whilst the children warmly sleep,
On the dreary wold,
Father stays till all his sheep
Are safely in the fold.

Linger not, oh! lagging feet!
Darksome night is near;
Weary shepherd fain would greet
Wife and children dear.

M. Betham-Edwards
Good Words


I knew a forest tranquil and august
Down whose green deeps my steps would often stray,
When leisure met my life as dew meets dust.

Proud spacious chestnuts verged each winding way,
And hickories in whose dry boughs winds were shrill,
And tremulous white-boled birches. Here, one day,

Strolling beside the scarce-held steed of will,
I found a beautiful monastic grove
Of old primeval hemlocks, living still.

Round it the forest rustled, flashed and throve,
But here were only silence and much gloom,
As though some sorcerer in dead days had wove,

With solemn charms and muttered words of doom,
A cogent spell that said to time "Depart!"
And locked it in the oblivion of a tomb.

Thick was its floor, where scant ferns dared to start,
With tawny needles, and an old spring lay
Limpid as crystal in its dusky heart.

Vaguely enough can language ever say
What sombre and fantastic dreams, for me,
Held shadowy revel in my thought that day:

How stern similitudes would dimly be
Of painted braves that grouped about their king;
Or how in crimson firelight I would see

Some ghostly war-dance, whose weak cries took wing
Weirdly away beyond the grove's dark brink;
Or how I seemed to watch by that old spring
The timid phantom deer steal up to drink!

Edgar Fawcett