769. But she neither turn'd her head Down along the rocky shore Some in the reeds Of the black mountain lake, High on the hill-top The old King sits; He is now so old and gray He's nigh lost his wits. 1824-1889 With a bridge of white mist From Slieveleague to Rosses; Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, By the craggy hill-side, As dig them up in spite, Up the airy mountain, 770. 771. Wee folk, good folk, And white owl's feather! GEORGE MAC DONALD THEY That Holy Thing 1824-1905 HEY all were looking for a king That made a woman cry. O Son of Man, to right my lot My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI The Blessed Damozel HE blessèd Damozel lean'd out THE 1828-1882 From the gold bar of Heaven : Than a deep water, even. She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. With a bridge of white mist From Slieveleague to Rosses; Of the gay Northern Lights. They stole little Bridget They took her lightly back, Between the night and morrow, By the craggy hill-side, As dig them up in spite, Up the airy mountain, 770. 771. Wee folk, good folk, And white owl's feather! GEORGE MAC DONALD That Holy Thing HEY all were looking for a king THEY 1824-1905 To slay their foes and lift them high: That made a woman cry. O Son of Man, to right my lot My how or when Thou wilt not heed, But come down Thine own secret stair, DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI The Blessed Damozel 1828-1882 THE blessed Damozel lean'd out She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. |