THE FALCON. Bietmar. By the heath stood a Lady, As she watch'd for her lover Who can fly where he list; And can choose in the forest The tree he loves best! Thus, too, had I chosen One knight for mine own, Him my eye had selected, Him prized I alone. But other fair ladies Have envied my joy: And why? for I sought not Their bliss to destroy. "As to thee, lovely Summer! As on yonder green linden And wilt not thou, dearest, THE LARK. THE livelong night, as was my wonted lot, Already with his shrilling carol gay The vaulting Skylark hail'd the sun from far; Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! That sweet fair one, Brightest, dear one, Then my joy might equal thine. Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou how I may pine; May be my care, True shall bide this heart of mine. Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou what griefs are mine; Come, relieve my heart's distress, Though in truth the pain is less, That she frown, Than if unknown She for whom I ceaseless pine. Hark! Hark! Thou merry Lark! Reckless thou how I may pine. ON SHOOTING A MOOR-HEN OFF HER NEST BY MISTAKE. THY droopit wing anes cheerful flew, Poor murder'd thing; As fate drew near, the wind did sigh, And dreary sing. Then thought some lavrock cam to rest, In safety sweet; Or, that it was the wind that pass'd, On sightless feet. But, oh! it was nae lavrock sweet. That nod by thee wi' tender feet The dewy grun'; But, oh! it was relentless fate, The mortal gun. |