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They ate, they laugh’d, they sang and The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin, quaff'd,
And Grace was bauld and braw; Till nought on board was seen, But the leal-fast heart her breast within When knight and squire were boune to It weel was worth them a'. dine,
Her father's pranked her sisters twa . But a spur of silver sheen.
With meikle joy and pride; Lord William has ta’en his berry brown But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's
steedA sore shent man was he;
She ne’er can be a bride. “Wait ye, my guests, a little speed On spear and casque by gallants gent Weel feasted ye shall be."
Her sisters' scarfs were borne, He rode him down by Falsehope burn,
But never at tilt or tournament His cousin dear to see,
Were Margaret's colours worn. With him to take a riding turn
Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower, Wat-draw-the-sword was he.
But she was left at hame And when he came to Falsehope glen,
To wander round the gloomy tower, Beneath the trysting-tree,
And sigh young Harden's name. On the smooth green was carved plain, “Of all the knights, the knight most fair, “To Lochwood bound are we.'
From Yarrow to the Tyne,"
Soft sigh'd the maid, “is Harden's heir, “O if they be gane to dark Lochwood
But ne'er can he be mine ;
“Of all the maids, the foulest maid, I'll go and have my share :
From Teviot to the Dee,
Ah !” sighing sad, that lady said, I “For little reck I for Johnstone's feud,
“Can ne'er young Harden's be." The Warden though he be." So Lord William is away to dark Loch
She looked up the briery glen,
And up the mossy brae, wood, With riders barely three.
And she saw a score of her father's men
Yclad in the Johnstone grey. The Warden's daughters in Lochwood i O fast and fast they downwards sped sate,
The moss and briers among, Were all both fair and gay,
And in the midst the troopers led All save the Lady Margaret,
A shackled knight along And she was wan and wae.
SONGS FROM THE NOVELS.
The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
Her cheek was pale--but resolved and high
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,
Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
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.
“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.
From the Legend of Montrose.
From the Heart of Midlothian.
[1818.] PROUD MAISIE. PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so early ;
Singing so rarely.
When shall I marry me?”"When six braw gentlemen
Kirkward shall carry ye.”
Hie ye fast, nor turn your view,
The hail-drops had not melted yet, Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. Amid her raven hair. Couch your trains, and speed your flight, Safety parts with parting night;
“And, dame,” she said, “ by all the ties And on distant echo borne,
That child and mother know, Comes the hunter's early horn.
Aid one who never knew these joys, –
Relieve an orphan's woe.” 3. The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams,
The lady said, “An orphan's state Ghost-like she fades in morning beams;
Is hard and sad to bear; Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay
Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, That scare the pilgrim on his way.-
Who mourns both lord and heir. Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen,
“Twelve times the rolling year has sped, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men;
Since, while from vengeance wild Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done,
| Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.
Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.”—
“Twelve times the year its course has Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and
The wandering maid replied; O’erpower the passive mind in sleep, “Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn Pass from the slumberer's soul away, Drew nets on Campsie side. Like night-mists from the brow of day:
“Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil ; Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim
An infant, well-nigh dead,
They saved, and rear'd in want and toil, Thou darest not face the godlike sun.
To beg from you her bread.”
That orphan maid the lady kissid, THE ORPHAN MAID.
“My husband's looks you bear;
Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd! NOVEMBER's hail-cloud drifts away,
You are his widow's heir."
They've robed that maid, so poor and When forth comes Lady Anne.
In silk and sandals rare; The orphan by the oak was set,
And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, Her arms, her feet, were bare;
Are glistening in her hair,
I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,