The book of British ballads . Dead with affright at first we lay ; But rousing up anon,We ran to see our little lord— Our little lord was gone ! But how or where we could not tell; For, lying on the ground,In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found. O grief on grief! Lord Albert said :No more his tongue coud say, When falling in a deadly swoone,Long time he lifeless lay. At length restored to life and sense, He nourisht endless woe ;No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know. So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake,Whose vigorous arms are torn aw
The book of British ballads . Dead with affright at first we lay ; But rousing up anon,We ran to see our little lord— Our little lord was gone ! But how or where we could not tell; For, lying on the ground,In deep and magic slumbers laid, The nurses there we found. O grief on grief! Lord Albert said :No more his tongue coud say, When falling in a deadly swoone,Long time he lifeless lay. At length restored to life and sense, He nourisht endless woe ;No future joy his heart could taste, No future comfort know. So withers on the mountain top A fair and stately oake,Whose vigorous arms are torn away By some rude thunder-stroke. At length his castle irksome grew,He loathes his wonted home ; His native country he forsakes,In foreign lands to roame. There up and downe he wandered far, Clad in a palmers gown,Till his brown locks grew white as wool, His beard as thistle down. At length, all wearied, down in deathHe laid his reverend head.— Meantime amid the lonely wildsHis little son was
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, bookidg, bookpublisherlondonjhow
