1 And seek the heath-frequenting brood Along the silver streams of Tweed, Then dashing from the current high, 'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, 1 [See the famous salmon-spearing scene in Guy Mannering.— Waverley Novels, vol. iii., p. 259–63.] Alwyn, the seat of the Lord Somerville; now, alas! untenanted, by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the author's nearest neighbour and intimate friend. [Lord S. died in February, 1819.] yy Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;1 While the gay tapers cheerly shine, Bickers the fire, and flows the wine Days free from thought, and nights from care, THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL. AIR" Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.' 2 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 hush 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 dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettricks shore. With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, 1 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, Were barren as this moorland hill. THE MAID OF ISLA. AIR-" The Maid of Isla.” WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH [1822.] O, MAID OF ISLA, from the cliff, Contend with ocean gallantly? Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge, Why does she war unequal urge ?— O, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, Her white wing gleams through mist and spray, - 31 Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark, As breeze and tide to yonder skiff, Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave, THE FORAY. SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD, MUS. DOC. CAM. THE last of our steers on the board has been spread, The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours, [Set to music in Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830.] The rain is descending; the wind rises loud; Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray! 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! |