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The miller answered him again, “He knew of little The Lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do up the


gate," she said,

and to bed;

Save that the Lady of the land did a new bride- "And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet groom choose;

And since he names my husband's name, so that he lists to stay,

Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy These towers shall be his harborage a twelveLord. month and a day."

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“Of him I held the little mill which wins me living It was the stalwart warder then undid the portal free, broad,

God rest the Baron in his grave, he still was kind It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold to me!

And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,

The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole."


It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill began, And stood before the bolted gate a woe and weary man;

"Now help me, every saint in heaven that can compassion take,


"And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said, "though from a man of sin,

That the true lord stands here once more his castle-gate within.”


Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step was sad
and slow;
[Lord to know;

It sat full heavy on his heart, none seem'd their
He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd with woe
and wrong,

To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful match Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seem'd little to break."


space so long.


His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come and slow,

For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy all with woe;

was evening hour,

The time was nigh when new-made brides retire to nuptial bower;

And to the warder thus he spoke: "Friend, to thy "Our castle's wont," a brides-man said, "hath been Lady say,

both firm and long,

A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves harbor No guest to harbor in our halls till he shall chant

for a day.


a song."


"I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there as he is wellnigh done,

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And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's And by my side as fair a bride with all her charms

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The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for


Lady," he said, "your reverend guest sends this,

my heir.

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The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it But blessings on the warder kind that oped my

close and near,

Then you might hear her shriek aloud, "The Mor

castle gate,

For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too

inger is here!"


The Erl-Bing.'


(The Erl-King is a goblin that haunts the Black Forest in Thuringia.-To be read by a candle particularly long in the snuff.)

O, WHO rides by night thro' the woodland so wild?
It is the fond father embracing his child;

And close the boy nestles within his loved arm,
To hold himself fast, and to keep himself warm.

"O father, see yonder! see yonder!" he says;
"My boy, upon what dost thou fearfully gaze?"
"O, 'tis the Erl-King with his crown and his shroud."
"No, my son, it is but a dark wreath of the cloud."

(The Erl-King speaks.)

"O come and go with me, thou loveliest child;
By many a gay sport shall thy time be beguiled;
My mother keeps for thee full many a fair toy,
And many a fine flower shall she pluck for my boy.".

"O, father, my father, and did you not hear The Erl-King whisper so low in my ear?"

1 1797.

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W. S."-Life, vol. i. p. 378.

"To Miss Christian Rutherford.—I send a gob- ing a version of that ballad, as it has been translated by Lewis lin story. You see I have not altogether lost the faculty of rhyming. I assure you there is no small impudence in attempt


Lyrical and Miscellaneous Pieces,


Juvenile Lines.


1782.-ETAT. 11.

"Scort's autobiography tells us that his translations in verse from Horace and Virgil were often approved by Dr. Adams [Rector of the High School, Edinburgh]. One of these little pieces, written in a weak boyish scrawl, within pencilled marks still visible, had been carefully preserved by his mother; it was found folded up in a cover, inscribed by the old lady— My Walter's first lines, 1782." -LOCKHART, Life of Scott, vol. i. p. 129.

In awful ruins Ætna thunders nigh,
And sends in pitchy whirlwinds to the sky
Black clouds of smoke, which, still as they aspire,
From their dark sides there bursts the glowing

At other times huge balls of fire are toss'd,
That lick the stars, and in the smoke are lost:
Sometimes the mount, with vast convulsions torn,
Emits huge rocks, which instantly are borne
With loud explosions to the starry skies,
The stones made liquid as the huge mass flies,
Then back again with greater weight recoils,
While Etna thundering from the bottom boils.

up in the shape of an apothecary's blue-buskined wife,' &c. &c. These lines, and another short piece 'On the Setting Sun,' were lately found wrapped up in a cover, inscribed by Dr. Adam, Walter Scott, July, 1783."

Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll,
And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Yet 'tis thy voice, my God, that bids them fly,
Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky.
Then let the good thy mighty name revere,
And harden'd sinners thy just vengeance fear.

On the Setting Sun.


THOSE evening clouds, that setting ray,
And beauteous tints, serve to display

Their great Creator's praise;
Then let the short-lived thing call'd man,
Whose life's comprised within a span,

To Him his homage raise.

We often praise the evening clouds,

And tints, so gay and bold,
But seldom think upon our God,
Who tinged these clouds with gold!'

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Minstrelsy, 1810, were written in 1797, on occasion of the Poet's disappointment in love.

The violet in her green-wood bower,

Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle.

Though fair her gems of azure hue,

Beneath the dew-drop's weight reclining; I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through wat'ry lustre shining.

The summer sun that dew shall dry,

Ere yet the day be past its morrow;

Nor longer in my false love's eye

Remain'd the tear of parting sorrow.

To a Lady.



WRITTEN in 1797, on an excursion from Gillsland, in Cumberland. See Life, vol. i. p. 365.

Take these flowers which, purple waving,
On the ruin'd rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.

Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there;
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.




THE following fragment of a ballad written at Bothwell Castle, in the autumn of 1799, was first printed in the Life of Sir Walter Scott, vol. ii. p. 28.

When fruitful Clydesdale's apple-bowers
Are mellowing in the noon;
When sighs round Pembroke's ruin'd towers
The sultry breath of June;

1 Sir Aylmer de Valence, Earl of Pembroke, Edward the First's Governor of Scotland, usually resided at Bothwell Cas

When Clyde, despite his sheltering wood,
Must leave his channel dry;
And vainly o'er the limpid flood
The angler guides his fly;

If chance by Bothwell's lovely braes
A wanderer thou hast been,
Or hid thee from the summer's blaze
In Blantyre's bowers of green,

Full where the copsewood opens wild
Thy pilgrim step hath staid,
Where Bothwell's towers, in ruin piled,
O'erlook the verdant glade;

And many a tale of love and fear
Hath mingled with the scene-

Of Bothwell's banks that bloom'd so dear,
And Bothwell's bonny Jean.

O, if with rugged minstrel lays Unsated be thy ear,

And thou of deeds of other days Another tale wilt hear,

Then all beneath the spreading beech, Flung careless on the lea,

The Gothic muse the tale shall teach Of Bothwell's sisters three.

Wight Wallace stood on Deckmont head,
He blew his bugle round,

Till the wild bull in Cadyow wood
Has started at the sound.

St. George's cross, o'er Bothwell hung,
Was waving far and wide,
And from the lofty turret flung

Its crimson blaze on Clyde;

And rising at the bugle blast

That marked the Scottish foe, Old England's yeomen muster'd fast, And bent the Norman bow.

Tall in the midst Sir Aylmer' rose, Proud Pembroke's Earl was heWhile"



"ANOTHER imperfect ballad, in which he had meant to blend together two legends familiar to

tle, the ruins of which attest the magnificence of the invader. -ED. 2 Life of Scott, vol. ii. p. 31.

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