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Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.

Frederic Edward Weatherly b. 1848

Douglas Gordon

“ROW me o’er the strait, Douglas Gordon,

Row me o’er the strait, my love,” said she,

“Where we greeted in the summer, Douglas Gordon,

Beyond the little Kirk by the old, old trysting tree.”

Never a word spoke Douglas Gordon,

But he looked into her eyes so tenderly,

And he set her at his side,

And away across the tide

They floated to the little Kirk,

And the old, old trysting tree.

“Give me a word of love, Douglas Gordon,

Just a word of pity, O my love,” said she,

“For the bells will ring to-morrow, Douglas Gordon,

My wedding bells, my love, but not for you and me.

They told me you were false, Douglas Gordon,

And you never came to comfort me!”

And she saw the great tears rise,

In her lover’s silent eyes,

As they drifted to the little Kirk,

And the old, old, trysting tree.

“And it ’s never, never, never, Douglas Gordon,

Never in this world that you may come to me,

But tell me that you love me, Douglas Gordon,

And kiss me for the love of all that used to be!”

Then he flung away his sail, his oars and rudder,

And he took her in his arms so tenderly,

And they drifted on amain,

And the bells may call in vain,

For she and Douglas Gordon

Are drowned in the sea.