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Wathers o' Moyle, an' the white gulls flyin',
We feel our love has long grown cold,
We haunt the woods, we haunt the streams,
We haven't got a policy,
We heard it calling, sweet and low,
We pinch the flowers, we pine the grass,
We pressed to greet him at Southampton Pier,
We quaff life's cup with dim,
We sat and listened in the creeping gloom:
We sat by the fisherman's cottage,
We see how wretched are the parts
We were together,--her eyes were wet,
Weep not for him! He is not gone to his rest
Well, this is what I saw on Granton Pier:
Wha says that Robbie Burns is deid?
What frightens you in from your play, my child?
What gleams of glad laughter
What I suffer for love canst thou
What means this rabble of low people here--
What prescient mind devised these gradients? laid
What sets my blood so mad aspin?
What shall I liken unto thee?
What shall we wish thee for the coming year?
What sounds are these? Why tolls that solemn bell?
What! you don't say so! Brown, the pattern-man--
What's this? A tear, one only?
When abed I lie enfolded
When Beatrice averred that she
When day's long course of toil is done,
When England sent thee forth, a joyous bride,
When first the might of France was set
When God created man from clay, He well
When I dare to tempt the sea,
When I hear the song, that erst
When I remember, Friend, whom lost I call
When I told you my troubles, my tale of despair
When it comes to lovers' parting,
When past thy house at morning
When she was as gay as a linnet,
WHEN summer days are hot and blue,
When the dead in their cold graves are lying
When the eternal
When the fields are ripe and yellow,
When the wild men from Pentland's shaggy side
When thou shalt lie, my darling, low
When two men quarrel, who owns the coolest head
When was our loving? Oh, ask when the mountains
When we were but mere children--
When, jewel-girt, the priest to pray
Whene'er I look into thine eyes,
Whenso I view the reverend halls
Where late the wild bee brushed
Where shall we find the Lord?
Where shall we learn to die?
Which shall it be, Love, which shall it be,
While a square of sunshine lay
While thus I mused, the genius of the spot
While yet a boy, nor then of dew
Whist then, oh my jewel! while I say--
Who can strive always? easier to lie down
Who may be proud? the young: for why? the pride
Who may the favoured youngster be,
Who ne'er loved must love tomorrow; whoso loved must love the more.
Who shall be the last great Seer
Who spouts his message to the wilderness
Who took the Government by storm
Why are the roses so wan of hue,
Why, no, I should not have told you, dear,
William, perched high "up a tree,"
Winter is it? Summer splendour
Wistaria blossoms trail and fall
With each new spring
With rosy cheeks and golden hair
Within a dreary narrow room
Within its banks this little brook includes
Within my arms thou'lt lie, love mine!
Within the hollow silence of the night
Woods russet red--
Would you tell lies to cheat the people? No!
Wouldst thou be a happy liver,
Wouldst thou with thy bounded sight
Writ in old French, your childhood's name
Ye caverns, and ye founts
Ye hae heard Whigs crack o' the Saints in the Bass,--my faith! a gruesome tale;
Ye Muses of Monmouth, permit me, I pray,
Ye who are rich, and share
Years come and go; generations
Yes! sapphires are those eyes of thine,
Yes, I would, for one hour, that John Bright had his way,
Yes, thou art wretched, and I am not wroth:
Yet this man, the mean Roman satirist,
Yon fort once proudly towered into the blue;
You blame me that I cannot love
You may drive from the tee both straight and far
You sleep upon your mother's breast,
You turn the gloom to gold!
You're a disciple of no school,
Your lazy loon, if dainty pigeons
Your purpose told to others, is your own
Youth's for an hour,