Читать книгу Ballads of Beauty - Various - Страница 11

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?"

"Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,