New Collected Rhymes by Andrew Lang
page 36 of 63 (57%)
page 36 of 63 (57%)
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A line of love, a word of praise,
A common memory of the ways, By Elibank and Yair that lead; Of all the burns, from all the braes, That yield their tribute to the Tweed. His boyhood found the waters clean, His age deplored them, foul with dye; But purple hills, and copses green, And these old towers he wandered by, Still to the simple strains reply Of his pure unrepining reed, Who lies where he was fain to lie, Like Scott, within the sound of Tweed. THE CONTENTED ANGLER The Angler hath a jolly life Who by the rail runs down, And leaves his business and his wife, And all the din of town. The wind down stream is blowing straight, And nowhere cast can he: Then lo, he doth but sit and wait In kindly company. |
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