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To which is prefixed a dissertation on the Irish harp and harpers, including an account of the old melodies of Ireland. Learn more about Amazon Prime. The Fair Maid of Perth or St. Valentine's Day is a novel by Sir Walter Scott. John's Town and other parts of Scotland around The book had been intended to include two other stories in the same volume, "My Aunt Margaret's Mirror" and "Death of the Laird's Jock", which was to have been titled St. Read more Read less. Related Video Shorts 0 Upload your video.

Try the Kindle edition and experience these great reading features: Share your thoughts with other customers. Write a customer review. There was a problem filtering reviews right now. Please try again later. Kindle Edition Verified Purchase. At the risk of sounding like a broken record, this book had action, adventure, and romance, that's why I love Scott.

If you are looking for action, adventure, and romance you cannot go wrong with Sir Walter Scott. I also liked the characters in this book. This edition of Chronicles of the Canongate is scholarly enough to allow students of Scott's work, or Scotish Literature, to develop new insights to the work itself and to the contexts surrounding it's production in relation to Scott's own situation when writing it.

At the same time, it is made accessible to the general reader through well researched textual notes, including translations of the Latin phrases peppered throughout the text, and a glossary of unfamiliar most usually Gaelic or Scotish words and phrases, allowing for an informed--and consequently more enjoyable, reading.

Irish Song Lyrics - Parting Glass

I was directed to this edition of the "Chronicles" through a conference paper, recently presented at the MLA Conference in Philadelphia, concerning the story "The Two Drovers"--one of the better known stories in the "Chronicles". I am not disappointed in that recommendation. And I highly recommend this volume, in turn. The text, as a whole, presents a marvellous opportunity for readers to "experience" Scott through relatively short works, before taking on one of his larger in terms of scope , longer novels.

Chronicles of the Canongate is a short masterpiece by Sir Walter Scott. The book is set within a framing device in which a fictional narrator Mr. Chrystal Croftangry relates three stories of Scottish life in the eighteenth century. Scotland and England were united in to become Great Britain.

Scott's fiction helped the two countries understand one another's people and customs. He is the grandfather of historical fiction. Chrystal Croftangry is retired and living in Edinburgh. The well to do Croftangry decided to become a writer of fiction. Through his friendship with Mrs. Baliol and others he learns stories of Scottish life conducive to his efforts in fiction.

Mainly Norfolk: English Folk and Other Good Music

What rapture can a brief span not conceive? How often have I written, said: What folly is it that I say? Purling streamlet, tell to me, Doth my sweetheart bathe in thee?

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Velvet sward, O, say to me, Doth my sweetheart rest on thee? Doth her heaving, snowy breast Breathe the fragrant rose with zest? Gloomy forest, answer me, Doth my sweetheart roam in thee? Do the winds that southward go Dare on her fair cheek to blow? To her lips do blithely leap Carols from her feelings deep?

I often, often think of you, Oh, fairest, sweetest angel mine! When in the night the tempest raves, I feel the stress of pain malign. A mere confiding child I was, And you but played with me, no more! A deep and secret import bore. With whom in bliss could I abide? If I could but weep again, My tears for you I still would shed. Bright butterflies I shall pursue, And such, dear little maid, are you!

When you on beauteous wings flit by, Why should I not to catch you try?

With childlike readiness I weep, When worldly vexing cares I reap; Yet, great as then my grief may be, A soothing nurse you are to me! And at your kiss and in your lap My smiles efface my tears, mishap: The poet, Yussuf, most did love, I vouch, These three: The maiden must be young, but old The couch might be, if soft, he told. The maiden must be full of fire, And passionate the tuneful lyre. Such was the wisdom Yussuf spread.

Collection of Irish Song Lyrics

A youth once came to him and said: My heart inspired the song! You know The heart that loves will overflow. In tree-tops sweetly coos the dove, But sweeter sounds the kiss of love. And heavenly bliss descends at night. How I should like to die! My soul flies into space. Sweet dream and sweet reality; Rose leaves fall from the rose tree. With my sorrows sun-rays toy; I could weep from heartfelt joy. My heart is filled with tuneful lay: As lilacs on the lilac spray; Alike, both song and heart, are filled With passion strong and love that thrilled.

Could but this forever last, Ah! Could we die ere love has past, Embracing you, my darling wife, Together enter future life. I do not ask you not to dream; That were a useless task, I deem. Love, dream thy dreams, and from them wake; Though disappointment thou must take. My only wish for thee is this: The feeling which you guard with care — To cope with naught on earth may dare; For, though your lips may not proclaim.

Your face and eyes confess its name. Then reveal it; if afraid, Speak not; whisper it, dear maid; If that be bold, then press to mine Your mute red lips — I will divine. For unto me the midnight bringeth light, And in the noonday I am oft in night. Look at me, sweetest rosebud, now; My dark-eyed fragrant violet thou. A star, bright star that shines on high Love is a shouting star from sky: Up in heaven, on earth below, — On hill and vale it causes woe, The shouting stars cause men to sigh. I, too, had once a most bright star; It shot afar one dismal night.

The bells ring out their saddest dole, Dig deep the grave; flown is her soul; And now my stars all buried are! May sleep soon hold me in its spell! I soon will lie upon my bed. At last I lie in sweet repose; My heavy eyelids now I close, And conjure up your face, sweet rose.

And while awake and sleeping, too, And while your loving face I view, I whisper low: Sweet Julia, do not weep; for all is right, Here with the brave, for our dear home I fight. If this be so I can but weep and moan; And pass my days in sorrow all alone, Alas! Mother, sweetheart, if you are still alive, To be of good cheer, then, you ought to strive: For he you two love best takes but delight For his good king and fatherland to fight.


And may the camp acclaim aloud with joy: Good and true Magyar fire burned within the boy. The sighs we breathe, where do they go? Now nearer to the hearth I bring my chair; Of all save waiting is my life grown bare. A fever stirs my heart into its core; It lasts until the footsteps reach my door. Will them my eyes again accost?

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Hair, hair, hair, Fine and silky hair Has this maiden fair. Lip, lip, lip, How gladly I would sip, Her kiss of fellowship. Eye, eye, eye, Like the stars on high, Is her sparkling eye. Beauteous as the heaven above, And, Godlike, therein reigns sweet love. Eye, eye, eye, Like the stars on high. Is her sparkling eye. Within himself attempts to hide: That is the direst of all ills, That is the grief that surely kills. Like dew-drop, on a leaf of rose, A word upon thy lips arose I never knew that with one word, Bliss, sweet as mine, can be conferred.


Say not the word, let it remain Where now it shines, and I would fain With kisses sweet to have it won. If of my love I sing at times, How happy I confess in rhymes: Fear naught, that I our secret bring To light, in songs I gladly sing.