THE

ETTRICKE GARLAND;

NG TWO EXCELLENT NEW SONGS ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE OUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT FOOT-BALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH.

THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER.

From the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,

Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame ;
And each forester blithe from his mountain descending,

Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

CHORUS.
Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettricke eight ages and more ;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.
When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,
For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border,
The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUCH.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
· A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.
Then

up with Banner, &c.

We forget each contention of civil dissension,

And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and CAR;
And Elliot and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,
There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather,
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

a

a

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure

To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.

Then up with the Banner, &c.
May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward,

From the hall of the Peer to the herd's ingle-nook ;
And huzzal my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUCH and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke.

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettricke eight ages and more ;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

Duoth the heriff of the Forest
Abbotsford, Dec. 1, 1815.

TO THE

ANCIENT BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH

And hast thou here, like hermit grey,

Thy mystic characters unroll'd,
O'er peaceful revellers to play,

Thou Emblem of the days of old ;
Or comest thou with the veteran's smile,

Who deems his days of conquest filed,
Yet loves to view the bloodless toil

Of sons whose sires he often led ?

Not such thy peaceable intent,

When over border-waste and wood,
On foray and achievement bent,

Like eagle on thy path of blood.
Symbol to ancient valour dear,

Much has been dared and done for thee ;-
I almost weep to see thee here,

And deem thee raised in mockery.

And e'en the days ourselves have known,

Alike the moral truth impress,
Valour and constancy alone

Can purchase peace and happiness.
Then hail, Memorial of the Brave,
The Liegeman's pride, the Border's awe ;

grey pennon never wave
On sterner field than Carterhaugh,

Muoth the Ettriche Shepherd. Altride Lake, Dec. 1, 1815.

May the

HELEN OF KIKKCONNELL.

BY JOHN MAYNE.

I WISH I were where Helen lies,
For night and day on me she cries ;
And, like an angel, to the skies

Still seems to beckon me !
For me she lived, for me she sigh’d,
For me she wish'd to be a bride ;
For me, in life's sweet morn, she died

On fair Kirkconnel Lee!

Where Kirtle waters gently wind,
As Helen on my arm reclined,
A rival, with a ruthless mind,

Took deadly aim at me ;

My love, to disappoint the foe,
Rush'd in between me and the blow,
And now her corse is lying low,

On fair Kirkconnel Lee !

Though HEAVEN forbids my wrath to swell,
I curse the hand by which she fell-
The fiend that made my heaven a hell,

And tore my love from me!
For, if where all the

graces shine O! if on earth there's aught divine, My Helen ! all these charms were thine,

And center'd all in thee !

Ah! what avails it that, amain,
I clove th' assassin's head in twain !
No peace of mind, my Helen slain-

No resting-place for me!
I see her spirit in the air !
I hear the shriek of wild despair,
When murder laid her bosom bare

On fair Kirkcornell Lee!

O! when I'm sleeping in my grave,
And o'er my head the rank weeds wave,
May He who life and spirit gave
Unite my

love and me!
Then from this world of doubts and sighs
My soul on wings of peace shall rise;
And, joining Helen in the skies,

Forget Kirkconnel Lee!

IMITATION OF HORACE-220 ODE.

(By Allan Ramsay, Junior.)

an Ramsay, junior, son of the pastoral poet, is better known as a painter than a poet; but in the latter capacity he possessed much of his father's humour. After the battle of Prestonpans he wrote an imitation of the Song of Deborah in Scripture, which he put into the mouth of a Jacobite young lady of family, which displayed considerable powers of satire. The following jeu d'esprit is a curious union of the Latin rythm with the modern rhyme.

Man of no base (John) life and conversation,
Needs not to trust in coat of mail or buff-skin,
Nor need he vapour with his sword or rapier

Pistol or great gun;
For if he ranges eastward to the Ganges,
Or if he bends his course to the West Indies,
Or sails the sea red, which so many strange odd

Stories are told of.

For but last Monday, walking at noon-day,
Conning a ditty to divert my Betty,
By me that sour Turk (I not frighted) our kirk-

Treasurer's man past.
And sure more horrid monster in the torrid
Zone cannot be found, sir, though for snakes renown'd, sir,
Nor does great Peter's empire boast such creatures

Of bears the wet nurse, sir.

Should I by hap land on the coast of Lapland,
Where there no fire is, much less pears and cherries,
Where stormy weather, sold by hags whose leather

Faces would fright one.
Place me where tea grows or where sooty negroes
Sheep's guts round tie them, lest the sun should fry them ;
Still while my Betty smiles and looks so pretty

I will adore her.