22 'And now, while happy peasants sleep, Here I sit lonely and forlorn; No one to soothe me as I weep, Save Philomel on yonder thorn. 23 'My spirits flag, my hopes decay; Still that dread death-bell smites my ear; And many a body seems to say, "Countess, prepare--thy end is near."' 24 Thus sore and sad that lady grieved In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear; And many a heartfelt sigh she heaved, And let fall many a bitter tear. 25 And ere the dawn of day appeared, In Cumnor Hall, so lone and drear, Full many a piercing scream was heard, And many a cry of mortal fear. 26 The death-bell thrice was heard to ring, An aerial voice was heard to call, And thrice the raven flapped his wing Around the towers of Cumnor Hall. 27 The mastiff howled at village door, The oaks were shattered on the green; Woe was the hour, for never more That hapless Countess e'er was seen. 28 And in that manor, now no more Is cheerful feast or sprightly ball; For ever since that dreary hour Have spirits haunted Cumnor Hall. 29 The village maids, with fearful glance, Avoid the ancient moss-grown wall; Nor never lead the merry dance Among the groves of Cumnor Hall. 30 Full many a traveller has sighed, And pensive wept the Countess' fall, As wandering onwards they've espied The haunted towers of Cumnor Hall. THE MARINER'S WIFE. 1 But are ye sure the news is true? And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark? Ye jauds, fling by your wheel. For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a', There's nae luck about the house, When our gudeman's awa. 2 Is this a time to think o' wark, When Colin's at the door? Rax down my cloak--I'll to the quay, And see him come ashore. 3 Rise up and mak a clean fireside, Put on the mickle pat; Gie little Kate her cotton goun, And Jock his Sunday's coat. 4 And mak their shoon as black as slaes, Their stocking white as snaw; It's a' to pleasure our gudeman-- He likes to see them braw. 5 There are twa hens into the crib, Hae fed this month and mair; Mak haste and thraw their necks about, That Colin weel may fare. 6 My Turkey slippers I'll put on, My stocking pearl blue-- It's a' to pleasure our gudeman, For he's baith leal and true. 7 Sae sweet his voice, sae smooth his tongue; His breath's like caller air; His very fit has music in't, As he comes up the stair. 8 And will I see his face again? And will I hear him speak? I'm downright dizzy wi' the thought: In troth I'm like to greet. LORD NUGENT.