Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/972

 SYDNEY DOBELL

Her misty hair is faint and fair, She keeps the shadowy kine;

Keith of Ravelston, The sorrows of thy line!

1 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 s 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,

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.

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