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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