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(4.)-SCENE

IN LUCKIE MACLEARY'S TAVERN.

"Is the middle of this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed, that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech their attention unto a military ariette, which was a particular favorite of the Maréchal Duc de Berwick; then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced,"

Mon cœur volage, dit-elle,
N'est pas pour vous, garçon,
Est pour un homme de guerre,
Qui a barbe au menton.
Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Qui porte chapeau a plume,

Soulier a rouge talon,

Qui joue de la flute,

Aussi de violon.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but break in with what he called a d-d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethrowit, the Piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up―"

It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed, And o'er the bent of Killiebraid, And mony a weary cast I made,

To cuittle the moor-fowl's tail.

If up a bonny black-cock should spring, To whistle him down wi' a slug in his wing, And strap him on to my lunzie string, Right seldom would I fail.

Chap. xi.

(5.)-"HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY."

"THE stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds,"

Hie away, hie away,

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:

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"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."

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will

ride,

And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the
cloud.

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:
Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her
eye.

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air, Questions three, when he speaks the spell, He may ask, and she must tell

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When the cold gray mist brought the ghastly notonous recitative of the bard for a lofty and

form!

*

Chap. xiii.

(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;

But the old man will draw at the dawning the Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,

sword,

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 is nigh!

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his

break,

Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake? That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye, But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

O sprung from the Kings who in Italy kept state, Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat! Combine like three streams from one mountain of

snow,

And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!

Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,

Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!

May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee !

Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring has given

Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,
To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar!

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display

The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!
How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd
Glencoe

Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,

Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake, Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!

'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call; Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall.

"Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;

They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

ire!

May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!

Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!

Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!

"As Flora concluded her song, Fergus stood before them, and immediately commenced with a theatrical air,"

O Lady of the desert, hail!

That lovest the harping of the Gael, Through fair and fertile regions borne, Where never yet grew grass or corn.

"But English poetry will never succeed under the influence of a Highland Helicon- Allons, courage"-

O vous, qui buvez à tasse pleine,
A cette heureuse fontaine,
Où on ne voit sur le rivage

Que quelques vilains troupeaux, Suivis de nymphes de village,

Qui les escortent sans sabots

Chap. xxii.

(10.)-LINES ON CAPTAIN WOGAN.

"THE letter from the Chief contained Flora's lines on the fate of Captain Wogan, whose enterprising character is so well drawn by Clarendon He had originally engaged in the service of the Parliament, but had abjured that party upon the execution of Charles I.; and upon hearing that the royal standard was set up by the Earl of Glencairn and General Middleton in the Highlands of Scotland, took leave of Charles II, who was then at Paris, passed into England, assembled a body of cavaliers in the neighborhood of London, and traversed the kingdom, which had been so long under domination of the usurper, by marches conducted with such skill, dexterity, and spirit, that he safely united his handful of horsemen with the body of Highlanders then in arms. After several months of desultory warfare, in which Wogan's skill and courage gained him the highest reputation, he had the misfortune to be wounded in a dangerous manner, and no surgical assistance being within reach, he terminated his short but glorious career."

The Verses were inscribed,

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