1

And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,

Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
"Tis blithe along the midnight tide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear;
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears.'

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal,

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,
My blessing on the Forest fair!

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,
And coldly mark the holy fane,
Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.

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,
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 FORAY.

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.

[Set to music in Mr. Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830.]

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!