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And the bridemaidens whispered, “'Twere Yet the lark's shrill fife may come better by far
35 At the daybreak from the fallow, To have matched our fair cousin with And the bittern sound his drum, young Lochinvar."
Booming from the sedgy shallow.
Ruder sounds shall none be near, One touch to her hand, and one word in
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champWhen they reached the hall-door, and the ing, charger stood near;
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping. So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
25 So light to the saddle before her he sprung;
While our slumbrous spells assail ye, “She is won! we are gone! over bank, bush,
Dream not, with the rising sun, and scaur;1
Bugles here shall sound reveillé.
41 They'll have fleet steeds that follow,”
Sleep! the deer is in his den; quoth young Lochinvar.
Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying: 30
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
How thy gallant steed lay dying. Netherby clan;
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;
Think not of the rising sun,
35 There was racing and chasing on Can
Here no bugles sound reveillé. nobie Lee,
45 But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did
BOAT SONG they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in
Hail to the Chief who in triumph adwar, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young
Honored and blessed be the ever-green Lochinvar?
Long may the tree, in his banner that From THE LADY OF THE LAKE
glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our
line! SOLDIER, REST!
Heaven send it happy dew, 5 Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Earth lend it sap anew, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, Dream of battled fields no more,
While every Highland glen
Sends back our shout again,
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
5 Hands unseen thy couch are strewing, Fairy strains of music fall,
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the Every sense in slumber dewing.
fountain, Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade: Dream of fighting fields no more;
When the whirlwind has stripped every Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
leaf on the mountain, Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her
Moored in the rifted rock, No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Proof to the tempest's shock, Armor's clang, or war-steed champing,
Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Trump nor pibroch summon here 15
Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Mustering clan or squadron tramping.
Echo his praise again, 1 cliff.
Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen
replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking
on her side.
25 Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with
Shake when they hear again, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 30
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber, Red hand in the foray,
How sound is thy slumber! Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the
Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the ever-green
Pine! O! that the rose-bud that graces yon is
lands Were wreathed in a garland around him
to twine! O that some seedling gem, 35
Worthy such noble stem,
Ring from her deepmost glen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe! 40
HARP OF THE NORTH Harp of the North, farewell! The hills
grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descend
ing; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her
spark, The deer, half-seen, are to the covert
wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain
lending, And the wild breeze, thy wilder min
strelsy; Thy numbers sweet with nature's vespers
blending, With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of
housing bee. Yet once again farewell, thou Minstrel
harp! Yet once again forgive my feeble sway, And little reck I of the censure sharp
May idly cavil at an idle lay. Much have I owed thy strains on life's
long way, Through secret woes the world has never known,
15 When on the weary night dawned wearier
day, And bitterer was the grief devoured
alone. That I o'erlive such woes, Enchantress!
is thine own.
Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow re
tire, Some Spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
20 'Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire, 'Tis now the brush of Fairy's frolic
Receding now, the dying numbers ring And as I rode by Dalton Hall, 5 Fainter and fainter down the rugged
Beneath the turrets high, dell,
A maiden on the castle wall And now the mountain breezes scarcely Was singing merrily: bring
25 “Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, A wandering witch-note of the distant And Greta woods are green; spell
I'd rather rove with Edmund there, And now, 'tis silent all!—Enchantress, Than reign our English queen.”fare thee well!
“If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,
Thou first must guess what life lead we 15 “Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
That dwell by dale and down. Why weep ye by the tide?
And if thou canst that riddle read, I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
As read full well you may, And ye sall be his bride;
Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
As blithe as Queen of May.”Sae comely to be seen
Yet sung she: “Brignall banks are fair, But aye she loot the tears down fa'
And Greta woods are green; For Jock of Hazeldean.
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen. “Now let this wilfu' grief be done, And dry that cheek so pale;
"I read you by your bugle-horn, Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And by your palfrey good, And lord of Langley-dale;
I read you for a ranger sworn His step is first in peaceful ha',
To keep the King's greenwood.”— His sword in battle keen”
“A ranger, lady, winds his horn, she loot the tears down fa'
And 'tis at peep of light: For Jock of Hazeldean.
His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.” “A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Yet sung she: “Brignall banks are fair, Nor braid to bind your hair;
And Greta woods are gay;
To reign his Queen of May.
“With burnished brand and musketoon But aye she loot the tears down fa'
So gallantly you come, For Jock of Hazeldean.
I read you for a bold dragoon
That lists the tuck of drum."-
No more the trumpet hear,
My comrades take the spear.
And Greta woods be gay, She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Yet mickle must the maiden dare Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.
Would reign my Queen of May!
“Maiden, a nameless life I lead, BRIGNALL BANKS
A nameless death I'll die: Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair, The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, And Greta woods are green,
Were better mate than I! And you may gather garlands there And when I'm with my comrades met, Would grace a summer queen.
Beneath the greenwood bough,
As he rode down the sanctified bends of
the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her
pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
15 Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou
Come fill up my cup, etc. With sour-featured Whigs the Grass
market was crammed As if half the West had set tryst to be
hanged; There was spite in each look, there was
fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and
The village maid steals through the shade
Her shepherd's suit to hear;
Sings high-born Cavalier.
Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
But where is County Guy?
And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads and the
causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dun
To the Lords of Convention 't was
Claver'se who spoke, "Ere the King's crown shall fall there are
crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honor and
me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
5 Come saddle your horses and call up
your men; Come open the West Port and let me
gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
25 And with the gay Gordon he gallantly
spoke; “Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak
twa words or three, For the love of the bonnet of Bonny
The Gordon demands of him which way
he goes “Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
30 Your Grace in short space shall hear
tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny
“There are hills beyond Pentland and
lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North;
There are wild Duniewassals three thou
Pale grew thy cheek and cold, sand times three,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning “There's brass on the target of barkened
Sunk chill on my browbull-hide;
It felt like the warning There's steel in the scabbard that dangles
Of what I feel now. beside;
Thy vows are all broken, The brass shall be burnished, the steel
And light is thy fame: shall flash free,
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.
They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear; “Away to the hills, to the caves, to the A shudder comes o'er merocks
Why wert thou so dear? 20 Ere I own an usurper, I'll couch with the They know not I knew thee, fox;
Who knew thee too well: And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of Long, long shall I rue thee, your glee,
Too deeply to tell.
In secret we met-
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget, He waved his proud hand and the trump
Thy spirit deceive. ets were blown,
If I should meet thee The kettle-drums clashed and the horse
After long years, men rode on,
How should I greet thee?—
With silence and tears.
KNOW YE THE LAND?
Know ye the land where the cypress and Come saddle the horses and call up myrtle the men,
Are emblems of deeds that are done in Come open your gates and let me gae their clime? free,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny the turtle, Dundee!
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to
Know ye the land of the cedar and vine, 5 GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON Where the flowers ever blossom, the beams (1788–1824)
Where the light wings of Zephyr, oppressed WHEN WE TWO PARTED
Wax faint o'er the gardens of Gúl in her When we two parted
bloom; In silence and tears,
Where the citron and olive are fairest of Half broken-hearted
fruit, To sever for years,
And the voice of the nightingale never is