The Poetical Works of Sir Walter Scott

They ate, they laugh'd, they sang and quaff'd,

Till nought on board was seen, When knight and squire were boune to dine,

But a spur of silver sheen.

Lord William has ta'en his berry brown steed

A sore shent man was he; "Wait ye, my guests, a little speed— Weel feasted ye shall be."

He rode him down by Falsehope burn, His cousin dear to see,

With him to take a riding turn—

Wat-draw-the-sword was he.

And when he came to Falsehope glen,

Beneath the trysting-tree, On the smooth green was carved plain, "To Lochwood bound are we.'

"O if they be gane to dark Lochwood
To drive the Warden's gear,
Betwixt our names, I ween, there's feud;
I'll go and have my share :

"For little reck I for Johnstone's feud, The Warden though he be."

So Lord William is away to dark Lochwood,

With riders barely three.

The Warden's daughters in Lochwood sate,

Were all both fair and gay, All save the Lady Margaret, And she was wan and wae.

The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin,
And Grace was bauld and braw;
But the leal-fast heart her breast within
It weel was worth them a'.
Her father's pranked her sisters twa
With meikle joy and pride;

But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's wa'

She ne'er can be a bride.
On spear and casque by gallants gent
Her sisters' scarfs were borne,
But never at tilt or tournament

Were Margaret's colours worn.
Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower,
But she was left at hame
To wander round the gloomy tower,

And sigh young Harden's name. "Of all the knights, the knight most fair, From Yarrow to the Tyne,' Soft sigh'd the maid, "is Harden's heir, But ne'er can he be mine;

"Of all the maids, the foulest maid,

From Teviot to the Dee,
Ah!" sighing sad, that lady said,

"Can ne'er young Harden's be."— She looked up the briery glen,

And up the mossy brae, And she saw a score of her father's men Yclad in the Johnstone grey.

O fast and fast they downwards sped

The moss and briers among, And in the midst the troopers led A shackled knight along.

SONGS FROM THE NOVELS.

From Waverley.
[1814.]

ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR.

ON Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,

Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:
Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
He may ask, and she must tell.

The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,
These three long years in battle and siege;
News are there none of his weal or his woe,

And fain the Lady his fate would know.

She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks ;-
Is it the moody owl that shrieks?

Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form!

FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG.

THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale,
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,
It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

O high-minded Moray!—the exiled-the dear!-
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

O sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat!
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe.

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!

Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,

To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar !

How Mac-Shimei, will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!

From Guy Mannering.

[1815.]

TWIST YE, TWINE YE.

TWIST ye, twine ye! even so,
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending!
Passions wild, and follies vain,
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear.

Now they wax, and now they dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle.
Twist ye, twine ye! even so,
Mingle human bliss and woe.

From the Heart of Midlothian.
[1818.]

PROUD MAISIE.
PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,
Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird,
When shall I marry me?"
"When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye."

"Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?".

"The grey-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

"The glow-worm o'er grave and stone
Shall light thee steady.

The owl from the steeple sing,
'Welcome, proud lady.'

From the Bride of Lammermoor.
[1819.]

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG.
Look not thou on beauty's charming,-
Sit thou still when kings are arming,
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,-
Speak not when the people listens,
Stop thine ear against the singer,-
From the red gold keep thy finger,
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.

From the Legend of Montrose. ANCIENT GAELIC MELODY.

BIRDS of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream-
All night long he heard you scream.
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,
There to wink and mop, for, hark!
In the mid air sings the lark.

Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wily fox,-

Hie ye fast, nor turn your view,
Though the lamb bleats to the ewe.
Couch your trains, and speed your flight,
Safety parts with parting night;
And on distant echo borne,
Comes the hunter's early horn.

The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams, Ghost-like she fades in morning beams; Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay That scare the pilgrim on his way.Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men; Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.

Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and deep,

O'erpower the passive mind in sleep, Pass from the slumberer's soul away, Like night-mists from the brow of day: Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb, Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone! Thou darest not face the godlike sun.

THE ORPHAN MAID.

NOVEMBER'S hail-cloud drifts away,

November's sun-beam wan Looks coldly on the castle grey,

When forth comes Lady Anne.

The orphan by the oak was set,
Her arms, her feet, were bare;

The hail-drops had not melted yet, Amid her raven hair.

"And, dame,” she said, “by all the ties
That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys,—
Relieve an orphan's woe.'

The lady said, "An orphan's state
Is hard and sad to bear;
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate,
Who mourns both lord and heir.
"Twelve times the rolling year has sped,

Since, while from vengeance wild Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.”"Twelve times the year its course has borne,"

The wandering maid replied; "Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn Drew nets on Campsie side.

From Ivanhoe.

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

I'LL give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,

And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear;

I confess him in haste-for his lady desires

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.

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