Ah, poor Louise! The sun was high,

It smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye,
The woodland walk was cool and nigh,
Where birds with chiming streamlets vie

To cheer Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! The savage bear
Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair;
The wolves molest not paths so fair-
But better far had such been there

For poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold;
His baldrick was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told

To poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine;
For peace of mind, that gift divine,
And spotless innocence were thine,

Ah, poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure's reft!

I know not if by force or theft,

Or part by violence, part by gift;

But misery is all that's left

To poor Louise.

Let poor Louise some succour have!
She will not long your bounty crave,

Or tire the gay with warning stave -
For Heaven has grace, and earth a grave,

For poor Louise.

III

DEATH CHANT

From Chapter XXII. 'Ere he guessed where he was going, the leech was hurried into the house of the late Oliver Proudfute, from which he heard the chant of the women, as they swathed and dressed the corpse of the umquhile bonnet-maker, for the ceremony of next morning, of which chant the following verses may be received as a modern imitation':

VIEWLESS Essence, thin and bare,

Well-nigh melted into air;

Still with fondness hovering near

The earthly form thou once didst wear;

Pause upon thy pinion's flight,
Be thy course to left or right;
Be thou doomed to soar or sink,
Pause upon the awful brink.

To avenge the deed expelling
Thee untimely from thy dwelling,
Mystic force thou shalt retain

O'er the blood and o'er the brain.

When the form thou shalt espy

That darkened on thy closing eye;

When the footstep thou shalt hear

That thrilled upon thy dying ear;

Then strange sympathies shall wake,
The flesh shall thrill, the nerves shall quake;
The wounds renew their clottered flood,
And every drop cry blood for blood.

IV

SONG OF THE GLEE-MAIDEN

From Chapter xxx. 'The maiden sung a melancholy dirge in Norman French; the words, of which the following is an imitation, were united to a tune as doleful as they are themselves':

YES, thou mayst sigh,

And look once more at all around,

At stream and bank, and sky and ground;

Thy life its final course has found,

And thou must die.

Yes, lay thee down,

And while thy struggling pulses flutter,
Bid the grey monk his soul-mass mutter,
And the deep bell its death-tone utter:
Thy life is gone.

Be not afraid,

'Tis but a pang, and then a thrill,

A fever fit, and then a chill,

And then an end of human ill:

For thou art dead.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR

1828

UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Careered along the lea;

The Palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound:
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:

Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stancher steed,

A peerless archer, Percy Rede;

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engrossed their joys and woes. Together at the dawn they rose, Together shared the noon's repose

By fountain or by stream;