Index of First Lines.

[Mottoes from the Waverley Novels are not indexed here]

A cat of yore (or else old Æsop lied)

A flask, in case your Reverence be athirsty
A mightier wizard far than I

'A weary lot is thine, fair maid'
A weary month has wander'd o'er
Admire not that I gain'd the prize
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day
Allen-a-Dale has no fagot for burning

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me

Amid these aisles, where once his precepts show'd

An ancient Minstrel sagely said

An hour with thee! When earliest day

And art thou cold and lowly laid

And did ye not hear of a mirth befel

And ne'er but once, my son,

he says

And said I that my limbs were old

And what though winter will pinch severe
'And whither would you lead me, then?'
And you shall deal the funeral dole

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun

Another day, another day

As lords their labourers' hire delay

As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound
Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and Old Wine
At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing.
Autumn departs; but still his mantle's fold
Ave Maria! maiden mild!

Bewcastle now must keep the Hold

Birds of omen dark and foul.

Bold knights and fair dames, to my harp give an ear

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead

By pathless march, by greenwood tree

Call it not vain; they do not err.

Canny moment, lucky fit

Forget thee? No! my worthy fere!

Full many a bard hath sung the solemn gloom

Fortune, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me?
Frederick leaves the land of France

From heavy dreams fair Helen rose

From Ross, where the clouds on Benlomond are sleeping

From the brown crest of Newark its summons extending
From thy Pomeranian throne

Fy on it, Flora; this botch'd work of thine.

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark
Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung
Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head
Hawk and osprey scream'd for joy

He is gone on the mountain.

He is not here those pleasures are not ours
Health to the chieftain from his clansman true!
Heap on more wood! the wind is chill.
Hear what Highland Nora said

Heir lyeth John o' ye Girnell

Here pause my tale! for all too soon

Here stands the Cross, good brother, consecrated
Hie away, hie away

High deeds achieved of knightly fame.

Hither we come

How well she queens it, the brave little maiden
'Hurra, hurra! our watch is done!'

I ask'd of my harp, 'Who hath injured thy chords??

I blame thee not, my child, for bidding wanderers
I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn.
I glance like the wildfire

I was a wild and wayward boy

If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright

Ili fares the bark with tackle riven

I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain
I'm Madge of the country

In awful ruins Ætna thunders nigh

In respect that your Grace has commission'd a Kraken

In the bonnie cells of Bedlam

Is all prepared?

It chanced that Cupid on a season

It is the bonny butcher lad

It was an English ladye bright

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine

It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed

I've scarce had time to glance at my sweet person

Joy to the victors! the sons of old Aspen! .

Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire
Long loved, long woo'd, and lately won
Look not thou on beauty's charming
Lord William was born in gilded bower

Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll
Love wakes and weeps

Macleod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies.
Maiden, whose sorrows wail the living dead.
March, march, Ettrick, and Teviotdale.

Measurers of good and evil

Menseful maiden ne'er should rise

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright
Merry it is in the good greenwood
Mon cœur volage, dit-elle

Mother darksome, Mother dread

My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard
My hawk is tired of perch and hood
My Lucy, when the maid is won.
My wayward fate I needs must 'plain

Nay, Lordings, put no shame upon my counsels
Nay, smile not, Lady, when I speak of witchcraft.
Night and morning were at meeting

No farther, Father-here I need no guidance
No, John, I will not own the book
Norman saw on English oak.
Not faster yonder rowers' might.
November's hail-cloud drifts away
November's sky is chill and drear.

O, Brignal banks are wild and fair

O, dread was the time, and more dreadful the omen

O for the voice of that wild horn

O Lady, twine no wreath for me

O listen, listen, ladies gay!

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see

O, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro
O open the door, some pity to show'.

O sleep ye sound, Sir James, she said.
O, Robin Hood was a bowman good
"O tell me, Harper, wherefore flow'
O Tybalt, love, Tybalt.

vous, qui buvez à tasse pleine

O, who rides by night thro' the woodland so wild

who, that shared them, ever shall forget

O will ye hear a mirthful bourd?

O will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohemian day?

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west

Of all the birds on bush and tree

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good.
Oh, bold and true