Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ;'
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the Forest fair!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW

HILL.

AIR – “Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run."

The air composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies, [1822.]

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is bush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore ; Though evening, with her richest dyc,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettricks 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.

*Ashestiel, the Poet's residence at that time.

*["Nathaniel Gow told me that he got the air from an old gentleman, a Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield, (he thinks,) who had it from a friend in the Western Isles, as an old Highland air.”

GEORGE THOMSON.]

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?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd 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.

THE MAID OF ISLA.

AIR-" The Maid of Isla.”
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH

MELODIES.

[1822.]

O, MAID OF ISLA, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,

And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge ?—

O, Isla's maid, she seeks her home. O, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, Her white wing gleams through mist and spray,

Vol. V. 31

Against the storm-cloud, lowering 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. As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou’rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintry 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.

THE FOR A Y. SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM.

The last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask 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.
The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom,
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud;
'Tis the better, my mates ! for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.
Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray!
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh ;
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and

rain. The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet—then mount and begone!To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the - slain; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!

TH

MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

AIR — “Ymdaith Mionge.” WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON’S WELSH MELODIES,

. [1817.)

ETHELFRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having ben

sieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, 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 monastery. 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.

When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey.
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand ?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!