All sights seen obscurely, all shouts vaguely
The white railing races with all the white faces,
The chesnut outpaces, outstretches the brown.
On still past the gateway she strains in the
Still struggles, "The Clown by a short neck
He swerves, the green scourges, the stand
And flashes, and verges, and flits the white
Aye! so ends the tussle,--I knew the tan muzzle
Was first, though the ring-men were yelling
A nose I could swear by, but Clarke said "The
A short head." And that's how the favourite
|It is long Tom Yeo of the town of Padstow,
Nay, Tom, by the mass thou art but an ass,
But the long wave rolls up a Mermaid's glass
The sun has set, the night-clouds throng,
Ye have seen the last ship from your haven slip,
"For this deed I devote you to dwell without
Three days did it blow, and none in Padstow
The old chain rattles, the old wood groans,
"Would God the dead and the slain were I!"
"O sair was the wrang and sair the fray,"
"But liefer had love be slain than slay,"
"O sweet is the life that sleeps at hame,"
"And women are fairest of a' things fair,"
Between the birk and the aik and the thorn
Between the bent, the burn, and the broom
He's laid him to sleep till dawn of doom:
When he set his face to the wind and fled:
His banes were stark and his een were bright
When he set his face to the sea by night:
When he came back hame frae the wide world's
"O whatten a wreck wad they seek on land"
"That they houk the turf to the seaward hand?"
"O whatten a prey wad they think to take"
"That they delve the dykes for a dead man's
A bane of the dead in his hand he's tane;
And the red blood brak frae the dead white
He's cast it forth of his auld faint hand;
And the red blood ran on the wan wet sand,
"That the straik of his hand should raise his
"That now I may die for my auld sin's sake."
"For the dead was in wait now fifty year,".
"And now I shall die for his blood's sake here,"
The sea swirls up to the still dim strand,
At the grey soft edge of the fruitless surf
At the grey soft rim of the flowerless turf
Was it earth's or hell's waste womb that bore
As lithe snakes turning, as bright stars burning,
As wild waves churning, as wild winds yearn-
A soft strange cry from the landward rings--
A keen sweet note from the spray's rim springs--