THE REIVER
Oh, clear the road runs down the hill, and out across the heath,
And at the three cross-roads there stands a gibbet stark as death:
The wind goes whistling round the bones of that which hangs beneath.
And at the three cross-roads there stands a gibbet stark as death:
The wind goes whistling round the bones of that which hangs beneath.
And on a merry Summer's morn my lady's coach rolls by,
The gay postillion cracks his whip; my lady's sombre eye
Looks straight ahead, down that white road that ribbons to the sky.
The gay postillion cracks his whip; my lady's sombre eye
Looks straight ahead, down that white road that ribbons to the sky.
Her little lap-dog at her feet, in scarlet collar drest,
Can climb upon her silken knee or nestle to her breast;
But black and dry are those wild lips that once her red mouth prest!
Can climb upon her silken knee or nestle to her breast;
But black and dry are those wild lips that once her red mouth prest!
A flight of birds across the moor drifts low o'er blossomy ways;
A cloud of butterflies comes out on sunshine girdled days;
And these are light and pleasant things for any lady's gaze.
A cloud of butterflies comes out on sunshine girdled days;
And these are light and pleasant things for any lady's gaze.
