Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,
Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!
'Tis the bugle-but not for the chase is the call;
'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons-but not to the hall.
'Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,
When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath;
They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.
Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire!
May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!
Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!

From Ivanhoe.

THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR.

I.

I'LL give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain,
To search Europe through from Byzantium to Spain;
But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire,
So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar.

2.

Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career,

And is brought home at even-song prick'd through with a spear; I confess him in haste-for his lady desires

No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's.

3.

Your monarch!-Pshaw! many a Prince has been known To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown;

But which of us e'er felt the idle desire

To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar?

4.

The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone,
The land and its fatness is marked for his own;

He can roam where he lists, he can stop where he tires,
For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's.

5.

He's expected at noon, and no wight, till he comes,
May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums;
For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire,
Is the undenied right of the Barefooted Friar.

6.

He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot,
They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot;
And the good-wife would wish the good-man in the mire,
Ere he lack'd a soft pillow, the Barefooted Friar.

MERRILY Swim we, the moon shines bright,
Both current and ripple are dancing in light.
We have roused the night raven, I heard him croak,
As we plashed along beneath the oak

That flings its broad branches so far and so wide,
Their shadows are dancing in midst of the tide.
"Who wakens my nestlings?" the raven he said,
"My beak shall ere morn in his blood be red!
For a blue swollen corpse is a dainty meal,
And I'll have my share with the pike and the eel."

2.

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,

There's a golden gleam on the distant height:
There's a silver shower on the alders dank,

And the drooping willows that wave on the bank.
I see the Abbey, both turret and tower,

It is all astir for the vesper hour;

The monks for the chapel are leaving each cell,
But where's Father Philip should toll the bell?

3.

Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright,
Downward we drift through shadow and light,
Under yon rock the eddies sleep,

Calm and silent, dark and deep.

The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool,
He has lighted his candle of death and of dool:
Look, Father, look, and you'll laugh to see
How he gapes and glares with his eyes on thee!

4.

Good luck to your fishing, whom watch ye to-night?
A man of mean or a man of might?

Is it layman or priest that must float in your cove,
Or lover who crosses to visit his love?

Hark! heard ye the Kelpy reply as we pass'd,

"God's blessing on the warder, he lock'd the bridge fast! All that come to my cove are sunk,

Priest or layman, lover or monk."

Landed-landed! the black book hath won,
Else had you seen Berwick with morning sun!
Sain ye, and save ye, and blithe mot ye be,
For seldom they land that go swimming with me.

TO THE SUB-PRIOR.

GOOD evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride,
With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide;
But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill,
There is one that has warrant to wait on you still.
Back, back,

The volume black!

I have a warrant to carry it back.

What, ho! Sub-Prior, and came you but here
To conjure a book from a dead woman's bier?
Sain you, and save you, be wary and wise,

Ride back with the book, or you'll pay for your prize.
Back, back,

There's death in the track!

In the name of my master, I bid thee bear back.

That which is neither ill nor well,

That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell,
A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream,
'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream;
A form that men spy

With the half-shut eye

In the beams of the setting sun, am I.

Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right!
Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night;
I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air,
And travel the world with the bonny night-mare.
Again, again,

At the crook of the glen,

Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again.

Men of good are bold as sackless,
Men of rude are wild and reckless.
Lie thou still

In the nook of the hill,

For those be before thee that wish thee ill.