Sydney Dobell.


774   The Ballad of Keiith of Ravelston

THE murmur of the mourning ghost
     That keeps thee shadowy kine,
‘O Keith of Ravelstoon,
     The sorrows of thy line!’

Ravelston, Ravelston,
     The merry path that leads
Down the golden moorning hill,
     And thro’ the silveer meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,
     The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother’s kine,
     The song that sang she!

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
     She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
     Rode thro’ the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
     His belted jewels shine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
     The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
     Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
     Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
     She keeps the shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
     The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,
     The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
     Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,
     She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
     The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood—
     Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
     ’Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,
     She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
     The sorrows of thy line!

775   A Chanted Calendar

          FIRST came the primrose,
          On the bank high,
          Like a maiden looking forth
          From the window of a tower
         When the battle rolls below,
          So look’d she,
          And saw the storms go by.

          Then came the wind-flower
          In the valley left behind,
          As a wounded maiden, pale
          With purple streaks of woe,
          When the battle has roll’d by
          Wanders to and fro,
          So totter’d she,
          Dishevell’d in the wind.

          Then came the daisies,
          On the first of May,
          Like a banner’d show’s advance
          While the crowd runs by the way,
With ten thousand flowers about them they came trooping
         through the fields.

          As a happy people come,
          So came they,
          As a happy people come
         When the war has roll’d away,
          With dance and tabor, pipe and drum,
          And all make holiday.

         Then came the cow-slip,
          Like a dancer in the fair,
          She spread her little mat of green,
          And on it danced she.
          With a fillet bound about her brow,
          A fillet round her happy brow,
          A golden fillet round her brow,
          And rubies in her hair.

  By PanEris using Melati.

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