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 | 2022-08-21T16:00:40Z |
| dc.date.available | 2022-08-21T16:00:40Z |
| dc.date.created | 1805-1817 |
| dc.date.issued | 1983-05-17 |
| dc.identifier | ota:0165 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/0165 |
| 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 | Oxford Text Archive Legacy Collection |
| 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 | 82078 |
| files.count | 1 |
| 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 . . .
