PART THIRD. MODERN. THOMAS THE RHYMER was renowned among his contemporaries, as the author of the celebrated romance of "Sir Tristrem." Of this once-admired poem only one copy is now known to exist, which is in the Advocates' Library. The Editor, in 1804, published a small edition of this curious work; which, if it does not revive the reputation of the bard of Ercildoune, is at least the earliest specimen of Scottish poetry hitherto published. Some account of this romance has already been given to the world in Mr Ellis's "Specimens of Ancient Poetry," vol. i. p. 165, part iii. 410; a work to which our predecessors and our posterity are alike obliged; the former, for the preservation of the best-selected examples of their poetical taste; and the latter, for a history of the English language, which will only cease to be interesting with the existence of our mother-tongue, and all that genius and learning have recorded in it. It is sufficient here to mention that so great was the reputation of the romance of "Sir Tristrem" that few were thought capable of reciting it after the manner of the author. The following attempt to commemorate the Rhymer's poetical fame, and the traditional account of his marvellous return to Fairy Land, being entirely modern, would have been placed with greater propriety among the class of Modern Ballads, had it not been for its immediate connection with the first and second parts of the same story. WHEN seven years more had come and gone, Was war through Scotland spread, And Ruberslaw showed high Dunyon Then all by bonny Coldingknow, They roused the deer from Caddenhead, The feast was spread in Ercildoune, In Learmont's high and ancient hall; Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine, Nor goblets of the blood-red wine, Nor mantling quaighs of ale. True Thomas rose, with harp in hand, When as the feast was done; (In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land, The elfin harp he won.) Hushed were the throng, both limb and tongue, And harpers for envy pale; And armed lords leaned on their swords, And hearkened to the tale. In numbers high, the witching tale Yet fragments of the lofty strain He sung King Arthur's table round: How courteous Gawaine met the wound, But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise, Was none excelled in Arthur's days For Marke his cowardly uncle's right No art the poison might withstand; Till lovely Isolde's lilye hand Had probed the rankling wound. With gentle hand and soothing tongue, And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung, O fatal was the gift, I ween! For, doomed in evil tide, The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen, Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright, The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale, Brangwain was there, and Segramore, Through many a maze the winning song Till bent at length the listening throng His ancient wounds their scars expand, With agony O where is Isolde's lilye hand, And where her soothing tongue? She comes, she comes !-like flash of flame She comes, she comes !-she only came She saw him die : her latest sigh There paused the harp; its lingering sound The silent guests still bent around, For still they seemed to hear. Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower, Lord Douglas in his lofty tent, When footsteps light, across the bent, He starts, he wakes :-"What, Richard, ho! What venturous wight, at dead of night, Dare step where Douglas lies?" Then forth they rushed: by Leader's tide, A hart and hind pace side by side, As white as snow on Fairnalie. Beneath the moon, with gesture proud, Nor scare they at the gathering crowd, To Learmont's tower a message sped, And Thomas started from his bed, First he woxe pale, and then woxe red; The elfin harp his neck around, In minstrel guise, he hung; And on the wind, in doleful sound, 1 Then forth he went; yet turned him oft To view his ancient hall; On the gray tower, in lustre soft, And Leader's waves, like silver sheen, "Farewell, my father's ancient tower! "The scene of pleasure, pomp, or power, "To Learmont's name no foot of earth The hare shall leave her young. "Adieu! Adieu!" again he cried, The hart and hind approached the place, And there, before Lord Douglas' face, Lord Douglas leaped on his berry-brown steed, But, though he rode with lightning speed, Some said to hill, and some to glen, Their wondrous course had been; But ne'er in haunts of living men WAR SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Hon. Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3,000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate." To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the scas, The voice of battle's on the breeze,- From high Dunedin's towers we come, Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravished toys though Romans mourn, O! had they marked the avenging call Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head. Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land The sun, that sees our falling day, For gold let Gallia's legions fight, If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer, or to die. To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; |