English Poetry III: From Tennyson to Whitman.
The Harvard Classics. 1909–14.
Sydney Dobell
688. The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston
T
That keeps the shadowy kine,
‘O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!’
The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,
And thro’ the silver meads;
The stile beneath the tree,
The maid that kept her mother’s kine,
The song that sang she!
She sat beneath the thorn,
When Andrew Keith of Ravelston
Rode thro’ the Monday morn.
His belted jewels shine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.
She keeps the shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.
She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!
Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?
The ancient stile is not alone,
’Tis not the burn I bear!
She keeps her shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,
The sorrows of thy line!