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The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.1 The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies, [1822.]

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick’s vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide,

"[" Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks,) who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air." GEORGE THOMsox.]

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. 291

And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,

How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

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WRITTEN FOR MR GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH MELODIES.

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0, MAID OF Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,

And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge?—

0, Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

O, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,
Her white wing gleams through mist and

spray,
Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark,

As to the rock she wheels away ;Where clouds are dark and billows rave,

Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?

0, maid of Isla, 'tis her home.

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou’rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintry cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave,

Must Allan Vourich find his home.

THE FORAY.1

SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM.

The last of our steers on the board has been

spread, And the last flask of wine in our goblet is red; Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and be

gone, There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be

won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours, For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the

towers, And strive to distinguish through tempest and

gloom, The prance of the steed, and the toss of the

plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
And the moon her red beacon has veild with a

cloud; 1 [Set to music in Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830.]

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