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VI.

With gestures wild and dread; The Seer, who watch'd them ride the

storm, Saw through their faint and shadowy form

The lightning's flash more red ; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray,

And of the destined dead.

Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

IV.

Song.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Our airy feet,
So light and fleet,

They do not bend the rye
That sinks its head when whirl-

winds rave, And swells again in eddying wave,

As each wild gust blows by ;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn,

Our fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste,
A trampled paste
Of blackening mud and gore.

Sons of the spear !
You feel us near

In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's eye
Our forms you spy,

And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight
Ere falls the night,

Just when to weal or woe
Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing- each startled

sprite Our choir of death shall know.

VII.
Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, Redder rain shall soon be ours

See the east grows wanYield we place to sterner game, Ere deadlier bolts and direr flame Shall the welkin's thunders shame Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Wheel the wild dance !
Brave sons of France,

For you our ring makes room ;
Make space full wide
For martial pride,

For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier !

Room for the men of steel !
Through crest and plate
The broadsword's weight

Both head and heart shall feel.

VIII. At morn, grey Allan's mates with awe Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,

The legend heard him say; But the Seer's gifted eye was dim, Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb,

Ere closed that bloody dayHe sleeps far from his Highland heath,But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale, On picquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright,

And dawn is glimmering pale.

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

[1815.] The original of this little Romance makes part of a manuscript collection of

rench Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the eld of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and with blood, as sufficiently to ndicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, nd is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The ranslation is strictly literal.

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,
But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine :
“ And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,” was still the Soldier's prayer,
“That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair."
His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord ;
Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air,
“Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.”
They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said,
“The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid. —
My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.”
And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine;
And every lord and lady bright, that were in chapel there,
Cried, “ Honour'd be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair !"

THE TROUBADOUR.
FROM THE SAME COLLECTION.

[1815.] GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, Even when the battle-roar was deep,

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, - With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, Beneath his lady's window came,

'Mid splintering lance and falchionAnd thus he sung his last good-morrow:

sweep, “My arm it is my country's right,

And still was heard his warrior-lay: My heart is in my true-love's bower; “My life it is my country's right, Gaily for love and fame to fight

My heart is in my lady's bower; Befits the gallant Troubadour." For love to die, for fame to fight, And while he march'd with helm on

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.” head

Alas! upon the bloody field And harp in hand, the descant rung, He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, As, faithful to his favourite maid, But still reclining on his shield,

The minstrel-burden still he sung : Expiring sung the exulting stave :“My arm it is my country's right, “My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower;

My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, For love and fame to fall in fight I come, a gallant Troubadour."

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.”

SONG, ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT

FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH.

[1815.]
From the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,

Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

CHORUS.
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.
When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,
For around them were marshall’d the pride of the Border,
The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUCH.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
We forget each contention of civil dissension,

And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and CAR :
And Elliot and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,
There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, ·
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure

To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward,

From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's ingle-nook ;
And huzza ! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUCH and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan, and the Duke !

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF..

Air—Cadul gu lo."

[1815.]

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.

II.
O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose ;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.

III.

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER.

[1816.] Once again,-but how changed since my wand'rings beganI have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn! With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return ? Can I live the dear life of delusion again, That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain ? It was then that around me, though poor and unknown, High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown; The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre : To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear. Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call, And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;

And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore. —
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn?
They were days of delusion and cannot return.
But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to dew ?
Oh! would it had been so,--Oh! would that her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,
Had been but a zephyr, that sigh’d and was still !

Oh! would it had been so,-not then this poor heart
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
“Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again.”

1.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

Air—“A Border Melody.
The first stanza of this Ballad is ancient. The others were written for
Mr. Campbell's Albyn's Anthology,
(1816.]

III. “Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? | “A chain of gold ye sall not lack, Why weep ye by the tide ?

Nor braid to bind your hair ; I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, And ye sall be his bride :

Nor palfrey fresh and fair ; And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

And you, the foremost o’ them a', Sae comely to be seen”

Shall ride our forest queen"But aye she loot the tears down fa' But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

For Jock of Hazeldean.
II.

IV. “Now let this wilfu' grief be done, The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, And dry that cheek so pale ;

The tapers glimmer'd fair ; Young Frank is chief of Errington, The priest and bridegroom wait the bride, ' And lord of Langley-dale ;

And dame and knight are there. His step is first in peaceful ha',

They sought her baith by bower and ha'; His sword in battle keen"

The ladie was not seen!
But aye she loot the tears down fa' She's o'er the Border, and awa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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