Poems. Selections
| dc.contributor | Michaelson, Sidney D of Computer Science U of Edinburgh |
| dc.contributor.author | Scott, Walter, Sir, 1771-1832 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
| dc.date.accessioned | 2019-07-04T10:59:57Z |
| dc.date.available | 2019-07-04T10:59:57Z |
| dc.date.created | 1805-1817 |
| dc.date.issued | 1983-05-17 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0165 |
| dc.identifier.citation | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/0165 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/0165 |
| dc.description.abstract | Contents: The covenanter's fate. Farewell to the muse. Lay of the last minstrel (Canto VI). Lucy Ashton's song : Bride of Lammermoor II. Marmion. Nelson, Pitt, Fox. Oh say not, my love. Proud Maisie : heart of Midlothian XXXIX. Rokeby (Canto III). Saint Cloud. Wandering Willie. William and Helen |
| dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 80.1 KB) |
| dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
| dc.language | English |
| dc.language.iso | eng |
| dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
| dc.relation.ispartof | Legacy Collection Digital Museum |
| dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. |
| dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ |
| dc.rights.label | PUB |
| dc.subject.lcsh | Poems -- Great Britain -- 18th century |
| dc.subject.lcsh | Poems -- Great Britain -- 19th century |
| dc.title | Poems. Selections |
| dc.type | Text |
| has.files | yes |
| branding | Oxford Text Archive |
| files.size | 87176 |
| files.count | 2 |
| otaterms.date.range | 1800-1899 |
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<T THE COVENANTER'S FATE>
<D 1799>
<P 696>
And ne'er but once, my son, he says,
Was yon sad cavern trod, -
In persecution's iron days,
When the land was left by God.
From Bewlie bog, with slaughter red,
A wanderer hither drew,
And oft he stopt and turn'd his head,
As by fits the night wind blew;
For trampling round by Cheviot edge
Were heard the troopers keen,
And frequent from the Whitelaw ridge
The death-shot flash'd between.
The moonbeams through the misty shower
On yon dark cavern fell;
Through the cloudy night the snow gleam'd white,
Which sunbeam ne'er could quell.
'Yon cavern dark is rough and rude,
And cold its jaws of snow;
But more rough and rude are the men of blood,
That hunt my life below]
'Yon spell-bound den, as the aged tell,
Was hewn by demon's hands;
But I had lourd melle with the fiends of hell
Than with Clavers and his band.'
He heard the deep-mouth'd blood-hound bark,
He heard the horses neigh,
He plunged him in the cavern dark,
And downward sped his way.
No . . .
