Page:Poems by William Wordsworth (1815) Volume 1.djvu/336

276 Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a Rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The Warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the Leader of the Band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.

Beside a Grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The Seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like Fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of Man and Steed,

Away they fly to left to right—

Of your fair household, Father Knight,

Methinks you take small heed!

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The Solitude of Binnorie.