noble measure; and the dancing anapasts of the second, show that he could with equal facility have rivalled the gay graces of Cotton, Anstey, or Moore."-LOCKHART, Life, vol. iv. p. 372.

To moor his fishing-craft by Bressay's shore,
Greets every former mate and brother tar,
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war,
Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done,
And ends by blessing God and Wellington.
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest,
Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest;

&c. &c. &c.

Lighthouse Yacht in the Sound of Lerwick,
Zetland, 8th August, 1814.

HEALTH to the chieftain from his clansman true! From her true minstrel, health to fair Buccleuch! Health from the isles, where dewy Morning weaves Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight leaves; Where late the sun scarce vanish'd from the sight, And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night,

Though darker now as autumn's shades extend, The north winds whistle and the mists ascend! Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds

toss

The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss;
On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides,
His own strong arm the bold adventurer guides,
And he that lists such desperate feat to try,
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf and sky,
And feel the mid-air gales around him blow,
And see the billows rage five hundred feet below.

Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar,
Practised alike his venturous course to keep,
Through the white breakers or the pathless deep,
By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain

A wretched pittance from the niggard main.
And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves,
What comfort greets him, and what hut receives?
Lady! the worst your presence ere has cheer'd
(When want and sorrow fled as you appear'd)
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home.
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow,
Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow;
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm array'd,
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry
As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly,
And from their sable base, with sullen sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.

Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain From those whose land has known oppression's chain;

For here the industrious Dutchman comes once

more

mirth.

A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow
The captive Norseman sits in silent woe,
And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors sway
His destined course, and seize so mean a prey;
A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so riven,
She scarce might face the gentlest airs of heaven:
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none
Can list his speech, and understand his moan;
In vain-no Islesman now can use the tongue
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage
sprung.

Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came,
Won by the love of danger or of fame;
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their

power;

For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land,
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand;
A race severe-the isle and ocean lords,
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords;
With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied,
And blest their gods that they in battle died.

Such were the sires of Zetlands simple race, And still the eye may faint resemblance trace In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, The limbs athletic, and the long light hair(Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings, Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's Kings); But their high deeds to scale these crags confined, Their only warfare is with waves and wind.

Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast!
Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost?
May not these bald disjointed lines suffice,
Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling
dice-

While down the cabin skylight lessening shine
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine!
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert day
Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble way,
While to the freshening breeze she lean'd her side
And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide?

Such are the lays that Zetland Isles supply; Drench'd with the drizzly spray and dropping sky Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel L-W. Scorr

not,

You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott(He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it,

But springs, I'm inform'd, from the Scotts of Scot

starvet);1

He question'd the folks who beheld it with eyes,
But they differ'd confoundedly as to its size.
For instance, the modest and diffident swore
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no

more

Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high,

Said it rose lik an island 'twixt ocean and skyBut all of the hulk had a steady opinion

That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's do

minion

And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly would wish,

To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish.
Had your order related to night-caps or hose,
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?
And direct me to send it-by sea or by mail?
The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but still
I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.
Inaved, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,
Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the

shore !

You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;
I own that I did not, but easily might-
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil,
And flinching (so term it) the blubber to boil;
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection
That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dis-
section).

1 The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name 'n Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of the Border, and their armorial bearings are different

Our commodore calls all his band to their places, And 'tis time to release you-good night to your Graces!

Verses from Waverley.

1814.

"THE following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous History of Fryar Bacon,' has been with difficulty deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride."

(1.)-BRIDAL SONG.

To the tune of "I have been a Fiddler," &c. And did ye not hear of a mirth befell

The morrow after a wedding day, And carrying a bride at home to dwell? And away to Tewin, away, away!

The quintain was set, and the garlands were made,

"Tis pity old customs should ever decay; And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, For he carried no credit away, away.

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees;

We set them a cockhorse, and made them play

The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees,
And away to Tewin, away, away!

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish

That would go to the plough that day; But on his fore-horse his wench he carries, And away to Tewin, away away!

But distant winds began to wake,
And roused the Genius of the Lake!
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn'd at once his sable cloak,
As warrior, at the battle cry,
Invests him with his panoply:
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd,
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest

O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek,
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd,
Flitted that fond ideal world;
And, to the shore in tumult tost,
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

(3.)-DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONG.

"HE (Daft Davie Gellatley) sung with grea earnestness, and not without some taste, a frag ment of an old Scotch ditty:"

False love, and hast thou play'd me this In summer among the flowers ?

I will repay thee back again

* In winter among the showers. Unless again, again, my love,

Unless you turn again;

As you with other maidens rove,

I'll smile on other men.

"This is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the last two lines."

Over bank and over brae,

Where the copsewood is the greenest, Where the fountains glisten sheenest, Where the lady-fern grows strongest, Where the morning dew lies longest, Where the black-cock sweetest sips it, Where the fairy latest trips it:

"THE view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag, which rose near it, had acquired the name of St. Swithin's Chair. It was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet,

Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung,
Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.

"The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted."

(7.)—DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONG.

"THE next day Edward arose betimes, and in a morning walk around the house and its vicinity, came suddenly upon a small court in front of the dog-kennel, where his friend Davie was employed about his four-footed charge. One quick glance of his eye recognized Waverley, when, instantly turning his back, as if he had not observed him, he began to sing part of an old ballad."

Young men will love thee more fair and more fast;

Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Old men's love the longest will last,

And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.

The young man's wrath is like light straw on fire;

Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? But like red-hot steel is the old man's ire,

And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.

The young man will brawl at the evening board; Heard ye so merry the little bird sing?

uncommon Highland air, which had been a battle song in former ages. A few irregular strains in troduced a prelude of wild and peculiar tone, which harmonized well with the distant waterfall, and the soft sigh of the evening breeze in the rustling leaves of an aspen which overhung the seat of the fair harpress. The following verses convey but little idea of the feelings with which, so sung and accompanied, they were heard by Waverley:"

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;

And the throstle-cock's head is under his wing.

[This song has allusion to the Baron of Braidwardine's personal encounter with Balmawhapple early next morning, after the evening quarrel betwixt the latter and Waverley.] Chap. xiv.

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 in nigh!