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And this bright font received it-and

a Spirit

COMPLAIN not on me, child of clay, If to thy harm I yield the way.

Rose from the fountain, and her date We, who soar thy sphere above,

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BORDER MARCH.

MARCH, march, Ettrick, and Teviotdale,

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.

Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,

Come from the glen of the buck and

the roe;

Come to the crag where the beacon

is blazing,

To find, and canst not find. Could Spirits shed

Tears for their lot, it were my lot

to weep,

Showing the road which I shall never tread,

Though my foot points it. Sleep, eternal sleep,

Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot!

But do not thou at human ills repine; Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot

For all the woes that wait frail
Adam's line;

Stoop then and make it yours- I may not make it mine!

Chap. xxx.

THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD.

Come with the buckler, the lance, THOU who seek'st my fountain lone,

and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms, and march in good order;

England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

Chap. xxv.

THE WHITE LADY TO MARY

AVENEL.

With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st

not own;

Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, When most his brow seem'd dark and sad;

Hie thee back, thou find'st not here
Corpse or coffin, grave or bier;
The dead alive is gone and fled—
Go thou, and join the living dead!

The living dead, whose sober brow Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now,

Whose hearts within are seldom cured Of passions by their vows abjured;

MAIDEN, whose sorrows wail the Where, under sad and solemn show,

living dead,

Whose eyes shall commune with the dead alive,

Maiden, attend! Beneath my foot lies

hid

The word, the law, the path which thou dost strive

Vain hopes are nursed, wild wishes glow.

Seek the convent's vaulted room,
Prayer and vigil be thy doom;
Doff the green, and don the grey,
To the cloister hence away!

Chap. XXXII.

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