William Edmondstoune Aytoun

William Edmondstoune Aytoun was a Scottish poet, lawyer, and professor of rhetoric and belles lettres. He was born on June 21, 1813, and passed away on August 4, 1865. Aytoun was a notable figure in the literary scene of his time and was associated with Blackwood's Magazine, where many of his works were published. He is best remembered for his humorous and narrative poetry. His collaboration with Theodore Martin on the Book of Ballads and his satirical work Firmilian demonstrated his prowess in blending humor with literary critique.

June 21, 1813

August 4, 1865

English

Broken Pitcher, The

It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
And what the maiden thought of I cannot, cannot tell.
When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of Oviedo,
Alphonso Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo.

"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! why sitt'st thou by the spring?
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and wide,
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?"

"I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
Because an article like that hath never come my way;
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell,
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon swell.

"My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is,
A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss;
I would not...

William Edmondstoune Aytoun

Lay Of The Lover's Friend, The

|Air| "The days we went a-gipsying."

I would all womankind were dead,
    Or banished o'er the sea;
For they have been a bitter plague
    These last six weeks to me:
It is not that I'm touched myself,
    For that I do not fear;
No female face hath shown me grace
    For many a bygone year.
        But 'tis the most infernal bore,
            Of all the bores I know,
        To have a friend who's lost his heart
            A short time ago.

Whene'er we steam it to Blackwall,
    Or down to Greenwich run,
To quaff the pleasant cider cup,
    And feed on fish and fun;
Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill,
    To catch a breath of air:
Then, for my sins, he straight begins
    To rave about his fair.
        Oh, 'tis ...

William Edmondstoune Aytoun