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Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen” -
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.
The kirk was decked at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmered fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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50

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU

(1816)

“Maiden! a nameless life I lead,

A nameless death I'll die;
The fiend whose lantern lights the mead

Were better mate than I!
And when I'm with my comrades met

Beneath the greenwood bough,
What once we were we all forget,

Nor think what we are now.
Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,

And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there

Would grace a summer queen.”

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60

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

(1816)

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"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide ? I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride: And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen” But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

5

15

Come from deep glen and

From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy.
Come every hill-plaid and

True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and

Strong hand that bears one. Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred,

The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

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20

“Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington

And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen"
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

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25

“A chain of gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair;

Come as the winds come when

Forests are rended; Come as the waves come when

Navies are stranded:

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Alas! the warped and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye? The harp of strained and tuneless chord,

How to the minstrel's skill reply? To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

5

PROUD MAISIE

(From The Antiquary, 1815-16:

Chapter x) “Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall,

Thou agèd carle so stern and gray? Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it passed away?". "Know'st thou not me?" the Deep Voice

cried; "So long enjoyed, so oft misused Alternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused! "Before my breath, like blazing fax,

Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay. “Redeem mine hours — the space is brief While in my glass the sand-grains

shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part for

ever!"

(From The Heart of Midlothian, 1818:

Chapter XL)

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15

Stand to your arms and march in good

order;

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

20

GLEE FOR KING CHARLES

COUNTY GUY
(From Quentin Durward, 1823:

Chapter iv)
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea. The lark, his lay who thrilled all day, 5

Sits hushed his partner nigh; Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,

But where is County Guy? The village maid steals through the shade,

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,

Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know — 15

But where is County Guy?

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BORDER SONG
(From The Monastery, 1819-20:

Chapter xxv)
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
Why the deil dinna ye march forward

in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the

border.

Many a banner spread,

Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story;

Mount and make ready then,

Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scot

tish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels

are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and

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the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon is

blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and

the bow.

Trumpets are sounding,
War-steeds are bounding,

THE FORAY

(1830) The last of our steers on the board has

been spread, And the last Aask of wine in our goblet

is red; Up, up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords,

and begone, There are dangers to dare, and there's

spoil to be won.

15

No more to chiefs and ladies bright

The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone that breaks at night

Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes,

The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks,

To show that still she lives.

15

THE TIME I'VE LOST IN WOOING

(From Irish Melodies)

Oft, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Fond Memory brings the light Of other days around me;

The smiles, the tears,

Of boyhood years,
The words of love then spoken;

The eyes that shone,

Now dimmed and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.
When I remember all

The friends, so linked together,
I've seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;

I feel like one

Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,

Whose lights are Aed,

Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed! Thus, in the stilly night,

Ere Slumber's chain has bound me, Sad Memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

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