too many to choose, but some include...
The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe
Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats
To L.L., Oscar Wilde
Ode, Arthur O'Shaughnessy
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too many to choose, but some include...
The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe
Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll
He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven, William Butler Yeats
To L.L., Oscar Wilde
Ode, Arthur O'Shaughnessy
ULALUME.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere —
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir: —
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.
Here once, through an alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul —
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
There were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll —
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek,
In the ultimate climes of the Pole —
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the Boreal Pole.
Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere —
Our memories were treacherous and sere;
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year —
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber,
(Though once we had journeyed down here)
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. [page 21:]
And now, as the night was senescent,
And star-dials pointed to morn —
As the star-dials hinted of morn —
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn —
Astarte's bediamonded crescent,
Distinct with its duplicate horn.
And I said — "She is warmer than Dian:
She rolls through an ether of sighs —
She revels in a region of sighs.
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion,
To point us the path to the skies —
To the Lethean peace of the skies —
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes —
Come up, through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."
But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said — "Sadly this star I mistrust —
Her pallor I strangely mistrust —
Ah, hasten! — ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! — let us fly! — for we must."
In terror she spoke; letting sink her
Wings till they trailed in the dust —
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust —
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.
I replied — "This is nothing but dreaming.
Let us on, by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light! [page 22:]
Its Sybillic splendor is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty to-night —
See! — it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright —
We safely may trust to a gleaming
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom —
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista —
But were stopped by the door of a tomb —
By the door of a legended tomb: —
And I said — "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied — "Ulalume — Ulalume —
'T is the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere —
As the leaves that were withering and sere —
And I cried — "It was surely October
On this very night of last year,
That I journeyed — I journeyed down here! —
That I brought a dread burden down here —
On this night, of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber —
This misty mid region of Weir: —
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber —
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
No poem haunts like this one; one of love and loss, Edgar Allen Poe's best in my opinion. quasimodo1
I learned words, I learned words: but half of them
died for lack of exercise. And the ones I use
often look at me
with a look that whispers, Liar.
from Ineducable Me, Norman MacCaig
It's great but is making me feel a bit guilty. Thanks for posting this poem, Lyn...Quote:
Originally Posted by Lyn
Very 'cool' poem, I think!
Glad you like it. MacCaig's my favourite poet of the moment, although I think a lot of people ignore/underrate his work. Here's another extract, from his poem 'Summer Farm'
"I lie, not thinking, in the cool, soft grass,
Afraid of where a thought might take me - as
This grasshopper with plated face
Unfolds his legs and finds himself in space.
Self under self, a pile of selves I stand
Threaded on time, and with metaphysic hand
Lift the farm like a lid and see
Farm within farm, and in the centre, me."
I like novels more than poems but I still have a few favourite poems:
E.A.Poe - The Raven, Alone
Sylvia Plath - Lady Lazarus, Never try to trick me with a kiss, Last words
'The Raven', by Edgar Allen Poe, is my favorite poem, though that may be obvious considering my name.
Not much for poetry on the whole (though I ought to pay more attention to it), but I do like Robert Frost. My favorite is Fragmentary Blue:
Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here and there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet)--
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
The Hollow Men by T.S Elliot
Anything by Plath. I love her :blush:
I like Daddy.Quote:
Originally Posted by Bakiryu
Edgar Allan Poe: The Conquerer Worm (Memorized), and The Raven.
I've completely memorized The Raven. The last few stanzas are a little shaky, but otherwise it's good.
I also like The Lady of Shallot, by Alfred Lord Tennyson. I memorized that one, too.
I started memorizing the Raven three days ago, and I've been reciting it every waking moment. It's been driving my Mom insane.
Haha! I have that sort of phases too :) Just when you can't get enough from one poem!
I even had the idea to tattoo Death be not proud's last line: "Death thou shalt die" ~ John Donne, on my spine! I'm still toying with the idea but my love for this poem has diminished a tiny bit now!
What is it about the raven that everyone loves so much? I like it too, was just interested to hear why so many people seem to like that one particular poem.
The rhythm, the rhyme. And the idea is most sublime. :)Quote:
Originally Posted by Lyn
Hello!
La Belle Dame Sans Merci
I.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
II.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
III.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
IV.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
V.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan.
VI.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
VII.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
VIII.
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
IX.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
X.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
XI.
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
XII.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats.
I don't like it, to be quite honest, I'm obsessed with it! :)
I like this simple poem by Carl Sandburg entitled: Fog
The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then, moves on.
I love her too- she was the subject of many many papers in college.Quote:
Originally Posted by Bakiryu
I enjoy Walt Whitman- my parents were hippies....
Leap Before You Look
The sense of danger must not disappear:
The way is certainly both short and steep,
However gradual it may look from here;
Look if you like, but you will have to leap.
Tough minded men get mushy in their sleep
And break the by-laws any fool can keep;
It is not the convention but the fear
That has a tendency to disappear.
The worried efforts of the busy heap,
The dirt, the imprecision, and the beer
Produce a few smart wisecracks every year;
Laugh if you can, but you will have to leap.
The clothes that are considered right to wear
Will not be either sensible or cheap,
So long as we consent to live like sheep
And never mention those who disappear.
Much can be said for social savoir-fairs,
But to rejoice when no one else is there
Is even harder than it is to weap;
No one is watching, but you have to leap.
A solitude ten thousand fathoms deep
Sustains the bed on which we lie, my dear:
Although I love you, you will have to leap;
Our dream of safety has to disappear.
- W. H. Auden
Wow! I love it!!!
Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched 20
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness, 30
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought, 40
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.
{from "Alastor: Or, The Spirit of Solitude"}
I am also a fan of these lines by Robert Frost.
Fire And Ice
Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
-Robert Frost
Honestly haven't read many poems but I remember this one from High School and liked it quite a bit.
Not exactly my favorite poem, but a good one:
Quote:
Snake
by D.H. Lawrence
A snake came to my water-trough
On a hot, hot day, and I in pyjamas for the heat,
To drink there.
In the deep, strange-scented shade of the great dark carob-tree
I came down the steps with my pitcher
And must wait, must stand and wait, for there he was at the trough before
me.
He reached down from a fissure in the earth-wall in the gloom
And trailed his yellow-brown slackness soft-bellied down, over the edge of
the stone trough
And rested his throat upon the stone bottom,
i o And where the water had dripped from the tap, in a small clearness,
He sipped with his straight mouth,
Softly drank through his straight gums, into his slack long body,
Silently.
Someone was before me at my water-trough,
And I, like a second comer, waiting.
He lifted his head from his drinking, as cattle do,
And looked at me vaguely, as drinking cattle do,
And flickered his two-forked tongue from his lips, and mused a moment,
And stooped and drank a little more,
Being earth-brown, earth-golden from the burning bowels of the earth
On the day of Sicilian July, with Etna smoking.
The voice of my education said to me
He must be killed,
For in Sicily the black, black snakes are innocent, the gold are venomous.
And voices in me said, If you were a man
You would take a stick and break him now, and finish him off.
But must I confess how I liked him,
How glad I was he had come like a guest in quiet, to drink at my water-trough
And depart peaceful, pacified, and thankless,
Into the burning bowels of this earth?
Was it cowardice, that I dared not kill him? Was it perversity, that I longed to talk to him? Was it humility, to feel so honoured?
I felt so honoured.
And yet those voices:
If you were not afraid, you would kill him!
And truly I was afraid, I was most afraid, But even so, honoured still more
That he should seek my hospitality
From out the dark door of the secret earth.
He drank enough
And lifted his head, dreamily, as one who has drunken,
And flickered his tongue like a forked night on the air, so black,
Seeming to lick his lips,
And looked around like a god, unseeing, into the air,
And slowly turned his head,
And slowly, very slowly, as if thrice adream,
Proceeded to draw his slow length curving round
And climb again the broken bank of my wall-face.
And as he put his head into that dreadful hole,
And as he slowly drew up, snake-easing his shoulders, and entered farther,
A sort of horror, a sort of protest against his withdrawing into that horrid black hole,
Deliberately going into the blackness, and slowly drawing himself after,
Overcame me now his back was turned.
I looked round, I put down my pitcher,
I picked up a clumsy log
And threw it at the water-trough with a clatter.
I think it did not hit him,
But suddenly that part of him that was left behind convulsed in undignified haste.
Writhed like lightning, and was gone
Into the black hole, the earth-lipped fissure in the wall-front,
At which, in the intense still noon, I stared with fascination.
And immediately I regretted it.
I thought how paltry, how vulgar, what a mean act!
I despised myself and the voices of my accursed human education.
And I thought of the albatross
And I wished he would come back, my snake.
For he seemed to me again like a king,
Like a king in exile, uncrowned in the underworld,
Now due to be crowned again.
And so, I missed my chance with one of the lords
Of life.
And I have something to expiate:
A pettiness.
We are dreaming of tomorrow and tomorrow isn't coming,
We are dreaming of a glory that we don't really want.
We are dreaming of a new day when the new day's here already.
We are running from the battle when it's one that must be fought.
And still we sleep.
We are listening for the calling but never really heeding,
Hoping for the future when the future's only plans.
Dreaming of the wisdom that we are dodging daily,
Praying for a savior when salvation's in our hands.
And still we sleep.
And still we dream.
And still we pray.
And still we fear.
And still we sleep.
- Todd Anderson of Dead Poets' Society
And, Awod, that is a great choice. I really love that poem. I heard it once before and I recall it truly stuck in my mind; who can go wrong with Robert Frost? To me that is a perfect poem.Quote:
Originally Posted by Awod
If you can think of any others do post them.
Virgil, I see you posted the "Snake" poem, that I posted on the D.H.L. short story thread. Good choice and it is downright 'highway robbery'! ;) :lol:
I like this poem a lot too. Though Frost wrote many other good poems too, but I believe none of them can compete this one!Quote:
Originally Posted by Janine
You know it's annoying when people post their school problems in threads dedicated to other things. :flare:
They've been dealt with Virgil :p
Good, Logos, Thank you. I also, get rather frustrated and annoyed when people ask me or us to do their school assignments. Afterall, we are all here to be just 'students' and learn more; we are not here to be 'teachers'. I don't mind helping those with their English or directing them to resources, but to do whole assignments is uncalled for.Quote:
Originally Posted by Logos
I know, I agree Janine. Don't go into the Orwell forums right now :lol:
Logos,:lol: don't you know if you tell someone not to do something, they are going to want to go and do that very thing - 'curiosity did kill the cat!'
Why can't I go there? Also, why does just the O in Orwell appear in brown highlight - oh, you underlined it, I see - am I missing the joke here? :lol:
revised post after above:
Logos, Ok, oK, I confess, I confess....quilty......I snuck a tiny peak....what is that over there....'Political Science' 101?......:lol:
Just don't tell, Virgil.....:lol:
the raven by edgar allen poe- the tightness of the rhythm is beyond perfection-anybody disagree? am in the mood for a debate...
Soir d'hiver
Emile Nelligan
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
Ô la douleur que j'ai, que j'ai!
Tous les étangs gisent gelés,
Mon âme est noire: Où vis-je? où vais-je?
Tous ses espoirs gisent gelés:
Je suis la nouvelle Norvège
D'où les blonds ciels s'en sont allés.
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Au sinistre frisson des choses,
Pleurez, oiseaux de février,
Pleurez mes pleurs, pleurez mes roses,
Aux branches du genévrier.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Ma vitre est un jardin de givre.
Ah! comme la neige a neigé!
Qu'est-ce que le spasme de vivre
A tout l'ennui que j'ai, que j'ai!...
There is some Emile Nelligan's translations in english, but they're bad. So whoever can read french enjoy this masterpiece, and for those who can't read french, you have no idea what you're missing!
"the raven by edgar allen poe- the tightness of the rhythm is beyond perfection-anybody disagree? am in the mood for a debate..."
Sorry to disappoint you, but there's no debate to be had there :p
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls:
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1851)
My favorite poem is "Gitanjali" by Rabindranath Tagore.Especially the stanza Mind Without Fear
............................
Where the mind is without fear and the head is held high;
Where knowledge is free;
Where the world has not been broken up
into fragments by narrow domestic walls;
Where words come out from the depth of truth;
Where tireless striving stretches its arms towards perfection;
Where the clear stream of reason
has not lost its way into the dreary desert sand of dead habit;
Where the mind is led forward by thee into ever-widening thought and action---
Into that heaven of freedom, my Father, let my country awake.
-----------------------------------------------------------------
"METHOUGHT I SAW THE FOOTSTEPS OF A THRONE"
I
METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud--
Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Ever put on; a miserable crowd,
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud,
"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone;
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave
The above by Wordsworth too touches me very much.
V.Jayalakshmi.
The Song of Wandering Aengus - W.B. Yeats
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
Poetry - Pablo Neruda
And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.
I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating planations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.
And I, infinitesmal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke free on the open sky.
Hynd Etin
May Margaret sits in her bower door
Sewing her silken seam;
She heard a note in Elmond’s wood,
And wish’d she there had been.
She loot the seam fa’ frae her side,
The needle to her tae,
And she is on to Elmond’s wood
As fast as she could gae.
She hadna pu’d a nut, a nut,
Nor broken a branch but ane,
Till by there came the Hynd Etin,
Says, ‘Lady, lat alane.
‘O why pu’ ye the nut, the nut,
Or why break ye the tree?
For I am forester o’ this wood:
Ye should spier leave at me.’—
I’ll ask leave at nae living man,
Nor yet will I at thee;
My father is king o’er a’ this realm,
This wood belongs to me.’
The highest tree in Elmond’s wood,
He’s pu’d it by the reet,
And he has built for her a bower
Near by a hallow seat.
He’s kept her there in Elmond’s wood
For six lang years and ane,
Till six pretty sons to him she bare,
And the seventh she’s brought hame.
It fell out ance upon a day
He’s to the hunting gane,
And a’ to carry his game for him
He’s tane his eldest son.
‘A question I will ask, father,
Gin ye wadna angry be.’—
‘Say on, say on, my bonny boy,
Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.’
‘I see my mither’s cheeks aye weet,
I never can see them dry;
And I wonder what aileth my mither
To mourn [sae constantly].’—
‘Your mither was a king’s daughtèr,
Sprung frae a high degree;
She might hae wed some worthy prince
Had she na been stown by me.
‘Your mither was a king’s daughtèr
Of noble birth and fame,
But now she’s wife o’ Hynd Etin,
Wha ne’er gat christendame.
‘But we’ll shoot the buntin’ o’ the bush,
The linnet o’ the tree,
And ye’se tak’ them hame to your dear mither,
See if she’ll merrier be.’
It fell upon anither day,
He’s to the hunting gane
And left his seven [young] children
To stay wi’ their mither at hame.
‘O I will tell to you, mither,
Gin ye wadna angry be.’—
‘Speak on, speak on, my little wee boy,
Ye’se nae be quarrell’d by me.’—
‘As we came frae the hind-hunting,
We heard fine music ring.’—
‘My blessings on you, my bonny boy,
I wish I’d been there my lane.’
They wistna weel where they were gaen,
Wi’ the stratlins o’ their feet;
They wistna weel where they were gaen,
Till at her father’s yate.
‘I hae nae money in my pocket,
But royal rings hae three;
I’ll gie them you, my little young son,
And ye’ll walk there for me.
‘Ye’ll gi’e the first to the proud portèr
And he will let you in;
Ye’ll gi’e the next to the butler-boy
And he will show you ben;
‘Ye’ll gi’e the third to the minstrel
That plays before the King;
He’ll play success to the bonny boy
Came thro’ the wood him lane.’
He ga’e the first to the proud portèr
And he open’d and let him in;
He ga’e the next to the butler-boy,
And he has shown him ben.
He ga’e the third to the minstrel
That play’d before the King,
And he play’d success to the bonny boy
Came thro’ the wood him lane.
Now when he came before the King,
Fell low upon his knee;
The King he turn’d him round about,
And the saut tear blint his e’e.
‘Win up, win up, my bonny boy,
Gang frae my companie;
Ye look sae like my dear daughtèr,
My heart will burst in three.’—
‘If I look like your dear daughtèr,
A wonder it is none;
If I look like your dear daughtèr,
I am her eldest son.’—
‘Will ye tell me, ye little wee boy,
Where may my Margaret be?’—
‘She’s just now standing at your yates,
And my six brithers her wi’.’—
‘O where are a’ my porter-boys
That I pay meat and fee,
To open my yates baith wide and braid,
Let her come in to me?’
When she cam’ in before the King,
Fell low down on her knee:
‘Win up, win up, my daughter dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—
‘Ae bit I canna eat, father,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my mither dear,
For lang for her I think.’
When she cam’ in before the queen,
Fell low down on her knee;
‘Win up, win up, my daughter dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—
‘Ae bit I canna eat, mither,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my sister dear,
For lang for her I think.’
When that these twa sisters met,
She hail’d her courteouslie;
‘Come ben, come ben, my sister dear,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’—
‘Ae bit I canna eat, sister,
Nor ae drop can I drink,
Until I see my dear husband,
So lang for him I think.’—
‘O where are a’ my rangers bold
That I pay meat and fee,
To search the forest far an’ wide,
And bring Etin back to me?’
Out it speaks the little wee boy:
‘Na, na, this mauna be;
Without ye grant a free pardon,
I hope ye’ll nae him see.’—
‘O here I grant a free pardon,
Well seal’d by my own han’;
Ye may mak’ search for Young Etin
As soon as ever ye can.’
They search’d the country wide and braid,
The forests far and near,
And they found him into Elmond’s wood,
Tearing his yellow hair.
‘Win up, win up now, Hynd Etin,
Win up an’ boun wi’ me;
We’re messengers come frae the court;
The King wants you to see.’—
‘O lat them tak’ frae me my head,
Or hang me on a tree;
For since I’ve lost my dear lady,
Life’s no pleasure to me.’—
‘Your head will na be touch’d, Etin,
Nor you hang’d on a tree;
Your lady’s in her father’s court
And a’ he wants is thee.’
When he cam’ in before the King,
Fell low down on his knee;
‘Win up, win up now, Young Etin,
This day ye’se dine wi’ me.’
But as they were at dinner set
The wee boy ask’d a boon:
‘I wish we were in a good kirk
For to get christendoun.
‘For we hae lived in gude green wood
This seven years and ane;
But a’ this time since e’er I mind
Was never a kirk within.’—
‘Your asking ’s na sae great, my boy,
But granted it sall be;
This day to gude kirk ye sall gang
And your mither sall gang you wi’.’
When unto the gude kirk she came,
She at the door did stan’;
She was sae sair sunk down wi’ shame,
She couldna come farther ben.
Then out and spak’ the parish priest,
And a sweet smile ga’e he:
‘Come ben, come ben, my lily-flower,
Present your babes to me.’
Charles, Vincent, Sam and Dick,
And likewise John and James;
They call’d the eldest Young Etin,
Which was his father’s name.
Edited by Arthur Quiller-Couch in The Oxford Book of Ballads