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How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou
start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that,--no requiem read o'cr him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?
The kirk was deckd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there,
The ladie was not seen!
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean,
LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.
When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are
gleaming; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming; Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
OTUSI thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight;
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gulo,
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wilderd, he drops from some cliff huge in
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.
'. Sleep on till day. These words, adapted to me.*** what different from the original, are sung in my friend o drama of Guy Manpering.
Anz--Cha till mi tuille.'
The boiling eddy see liim try,
MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, « Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon,» e I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!» The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.
'T is blithe along the midnight tide,
'T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
MACLEOD's wizard flag from the gray castle sallies,
- Farewell the bright clouds that onQuillan are sleeping;
The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.
The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.
Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Be beard when the Gael on their exile are sailings Dear land! to the shores, whence unwilling we sever, Return-return--return-shall we never,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille !
The sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears thosc bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,
Flames o'er the hills of Eurick's shore.
With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,
The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were,
Or is the dreary change in me?
OX ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.2
On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,
Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
How to the midstrel's skill reply!
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers
Were barren as this moorland hill.
Along the silver streams of Tweed,
We retorp no more.. *Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been engaged with some friends.
THE MAID OF ISLA.
Air-The Maid of Isla. Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.
THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.
Air - Ymdaith Mionge. Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.
ETABLRID, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a Britisha prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in proces sion, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their nastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession,
O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,
Her white wing gleams through mist and spray, Against the storm clad, louring dark,
As to the rock she wheels away ;Where clouds are dark and billows rave,
Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?-
O maid of Isla, 't is her home.
Waen the heatheo trumpet's clang
O miscrere, Domine!
As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,
Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,
Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,
Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Allan Vourich find his home.
On the long procession goes,
O miserere, Domine!