The book of British ballads . The moonshine, stealing oer the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve ;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man,The statue of the armed knight;She stood and listened to my lay,Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope ! my joy! my Genevieve !She loves me best wheneer I singThe songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modes

---

The book of British ballads . The moonshine, stealing oer the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve ;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve ! She leaned against the armed man,The statue of the armed knight;She stood and listened to my lay,Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope ! my joy! my Genevieve !She loves me best wheneer I singThe songs that make her grieve. I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary. She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not choose,But gaze upon her face. I told her of the knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand ;And that for ten long years he wooedThe Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined : and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang anothers love,Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace ;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fo

---

Size: 1007px × 2481px
Photo credit: © The Reading Room / Alamy / Afripics
License: Licensed
Model Released: No

Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1840, bookidg, bookpublisherlondonjhow