They ate, they laugh’d, they sang and The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin, quaff'd,

And Grace was bauld and braw; Till nought on board was seen, But the leal-fast heart her breast within When knight and squire were boune to It weel was worth them a'. dine,

Her father's pranked her sisters twa . But a spur of silver sheen.

With meikle joy and pride; Lord William has ta’en his berry brown But Margaret maun seek Dundrennan's

steedA sore shent man was he;

She ne’er can be a bride. “Wait ye, my guests, a little speed On spear and casque by gallants gent Weel feasted ye shall be."

Her sisters' scarfs were borne, He rode him down by Falsehope burn,

But never at tilt or tournament His cousin dear to see,

Were Margaret's colours worn. With him to take a riding turn

Her sisters rode to Thirlstane bower, Wat-draw-the-sword was he.

But she was left at hame And when he came to Falsehope glen,

To wander round the gloomy tower, Beneath the trysting-tree,

And sigh young Harden's name. On the smooth green was carved plain, “Of all the knights, the knight most fair, “To Lochwood bound are we.'

From Yarrow to the Tyne,"

Soft sigh'd the maid, “is Harden's heir, “O if they be gane to dark Lochwood

But ne'er can he be mine ;
To drive the Warden's gear,
Betwixt our names, I ween, there's feud;

“Of all the maids, the foulest maid, I'll go and have my share :

From Teviot to the Dee,

Ah !” sighing sad, that lady said, I “For little reck I for Johnstone's feud,

“Can ne'er young Harden's be." The Warden though he be." So Lord William is away to dark Loch

She looked up the briery glen,

And up the mossy brae, wood, With riders barely three.

And she saw a score of her father's men

Yclad in the Johnstone grey. The Warden's daughters in Lochwood i O fast and fast they downwards sped sate,

The moss and briers among, Were all both fair and gay,

And in the midst the troopers led All save the Lady Margaret,

A shackled knight along And she was wan and wae.


From Waverley.

ON Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless!d;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.
For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
· Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud

The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair,
1. The dew of the night has damp'd her hair :

Her cheek was pale--but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell, 1
He may ask, and she must tell.
The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,
These three long years in battle and siege ;
News are there none of his weal or his woe,
And fain the Lady his fate would know.
She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks ;-
Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream ?
The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly form!

FLORA MACIVOR'S SONG. THERE is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land, It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand !

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.
The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse,
Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse!
Be mute every string, and be hush'd every tone,
That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown.
But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last ;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.
O high-minded Moray !—the exiled the dear!-
In the blush of the dawning the STANDARD uprear!
Wide, wide on the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh!
Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.
O sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat !
Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,
And resistless in union rush down on the foe.
True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,
Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel !
Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell,
Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!
Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,
Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!
May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!
Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given
Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,
Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,
To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar !
How Mac-Shimei, will joy when their chief shall display
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey!
How the race of wrong’d Alpine and murder'd Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!
Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More!
Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

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 Guy Mannering.

[1815.] TWIST YE, TWINE YE. Twist ye, twine ye! even so, Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife, In the thread of human life. While the mystic twist is spinning, And the infant's life beginning, Dimly seen through twilight bending, Lo, what varied shapes attending! Passions wild, and follies vain, Pleasures soon exchanged for pain ; Doubt, and jealousy, and fear, In the magic dance appear. Now they wax, and now they dwindle, Whirling with the whirling spindle. Twist ye, twine ye ! even so, Mingle human bliss and woe.

“Who makes the bridal bed,

Birdie, say truly ?”— “The grey-headed sexton

That delves the grave duly. “The glow-worm o'er grave and stone

Shall light thee steady.
The owl from the steeple sing,
"Welcome, proud lady.”'
From the Bride of Lammermoor.

LOOK not thou on beauty's charming,-
Sit thou still when kings are arming,
Taste not when the wine-cup glistens,
Speak not when the people listens, –
Stop thine ear against the singer, -
From the red gold keep thy finger,
Vacant heart, and hand, and eye,
Easy live and quiet die.

From the Legend of Montrose.

BIRDS of omen dark and foul,
Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Leave the sick man to his dream-
All night long he heard you scream.
Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,
Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,
There to wink and mop, for, hark !
In the mid air sings the lark.

2. ..
Hie to moorish gills and rocks,
Prowling wolf and wily fox, —

From the Heart of Midlothian.

[1818.] PROUD MAISIE. PROUD Maisie is in the wood,

Walking so early ;
Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

Singing so rarely.
"Tell me, thou bonny bird,

When shall I marry me?”"When six braw gentlemen

Kirkward shall carry ye.”

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Hie ye fast, nor turn your view,

The hail-drops had not melted yet, Though the lamb bleats to the ewe. Amid her raven hair. Couch your trains, and speed your flight, Safety parts with parting night;

“And, dame,” she said, “ by all the ties And on distant echo borne,

That child and mother know, Comes the hunter's early horn.

Aid one who never knew these joys, –

Relieve an orphan's woe.” 3. The moon's wan crescent scarcely gleams,

The lady said, “An orphan's state Ghost-like she fades in morning beams;

Is hard and sad to bear; Hie hence, each peevish imp and fay

Yet worse the widow'd mother's fate, That scare the pilgrim on his way.-

Who mourns both lord and heir. Quench, kelpy! quench, in bog and fen,

“Twelve times the rolling year has sped, Thy torch, that cheats benighted men;

Since, while from vengeance wild Thy dance is o'er, thy reign is done,

| Of fierce Strathallan's chief I fled, For Benyieglo hath seen the sun.

Forth's eddies whelm'd my child.”—

“Twelve times the year its course has Wild thoughts, that, sinful, dark, and


The wandering maid replied; O’erpower the passive mind in sleep, “Since fishers on Saint Bridget's morn Pass from the slumberer's soul away, Drew nets on Campsie side. Like night-mists from the brow of day:

“Saint Bridget sent no scaly spoil ; Foul hag, whose blasted visage grim

An infant, well-nigh dead,
Smothers the pulse, unnerves the limb,
Spur thy dark palfrey, and begone!

They saved, and rear'd in want and toil, Thou darest not face the godlike sun.

To beg from you her bread.”

That orphan maid the lady kissid, THE ORPHAN MAID.

“My husband's looks you bear;

Saint Bridget and her morn be bless'd! NOVEMBER's hail-cloud drifts away,

You are his widow's heir."
November's sun-beam wan
Looks coldly on the castle grey,

They've robed that maid, so poor and When forth comes Lady Anne.


In silk and sandals rare; The orphan by the oak was set,

And pearls, for drops of frozen hail, Her arms, her feet, were bare;

Are glistening in her hair,


From Ivanhoe.

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.

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.

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