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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,

(2.)—CHAP. II.

In yon lone vale his early youth was bred. Not solitary then-the bugle-horn

Of fell Alecto often waked its windings,
From where the brook joins the majestic river,
To the wild northern bog, the curlieu's haunt,
Where oozes forth its first and feeble streamlet.
Old Play.

(3.)-CHAP. V.

A priest, ye cry, a priest !-lame shepherds they,
How shall they gather in the straggling flock?
Dumb dogs which bark not-how shall they compel
The loitering vagrants to the Master's fold
Fitter to bask before the blazing fire,
And snuff the mess neat-handed Phillis dresses,
Than on the snow-wreath battle with the wolf.

(4.)-CHAP. VI.

Now let us sit in conclave. That these weeds
Be rooted from the vineyard of the Church,
That these foul tares be sever'd from the wheat,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. We are, I trust, agreed.-Yet how to do this,


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, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.

Trumpets are sounding,

War-steeds are bounding,

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Nay, dally not with time, the wise man's treasure,
Though fools are lavish on't-the fatal Fisher

Stand to your arms, and march in good order, Hooks souls, while we waste moments.

England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.


(1.)-CHAP. I.

Chap. xxv.

(6.)-CHAP. XI.

Old Play.

You call this education, do you not?
Why, 'tis the forced march of a herd of bullocks
Before a shouting drover. The glad van
Move on at ease, and pause a while to snatch
A passing morsel from the dewy green-sward,
While all the blows, the oaths, the indignation,
Fall on the croupe of the ill-fated laggard
That cripples in the rear.

O AY! the Monks, the Monks, they did the mischief!

Old Play.

(7.)-CHAP. XII.

Theirs all the grossness, all the superstition

Of a most gross and superstitious age.

There's something in that ancient superstition,

May HE be praised that sent the healthful tem- Which, erring as it is, our fancy loves.

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Which wise men scorn, and fools accept in pay- Now, by Our Lady, Sheriff, 'tis hard reckoning,

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From the Abbot.



"AT length the pardoner pulled from his scrip - a small phial of clear water, of which he vaunted the quality in the following verses:"—

Listneth, gode people, everiche one,
For in the londe of Babylone,
Far eastward I wot it lyeth,

And is the first londe the sonne espieth,
Ther, as he cometh fro out the sé;
In this ilk londe, as thinketh me,
Right as holie legendes tell,
Snottreth from a roke a well,
And falleth into ane bath of ston,
Wher chast Susanne in times long gon,
Was wont to wash her bodie and lim-
Mickle vertue hath that streme,
As ye shall se er that ye pas,
Ensample by this little glas-
Through nightés cold and dayés hote,
Hiderward I have it brought;
Hath a wife made slip or slide,
Or a maiden stepp'd aside;

Putteth this water under her nese,
Wold she nold she, she shall snese.

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(7.)-CHAP. XVI.

Youth! thou wear'st to manhood now,

Darker lip and darker brow,

Statelier step, more pensive mien,

In thy face and gait are seen:

Thou must now brook midnight watches,

Take thy food and sport by snatches!

For the gambol and the jest,
Thou wert wont to love the best,
Graver follies must thou follow,
But as senseless, false, and hollow.
Life, a Poem.

(8.)-CHAP. XIX.

It is and is not 'tis the thing I sought for,
Have kneel'd for, pray'd for, risk'd my fame and

life for,

And yet it is not-no more than the shadow
Upon the hard, cold, flat, and polish'd mirror,
Is the warm, graceful, rounded, living substance
Which it presents in form and lineament.


Old Play.

Give me a morsel on the greensward rather, Coarse as you will the cooking-Let the fresh


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Yes, it is she whose eyes look'd on thy childhood, And watch'd with trembling hope thy dawn of youth,

That now, with these same eye-balls, dimm'd with


And dimmer yet with tears, sees thy dishonor.
Old Play.

(13.)-CHAP. Xxx.

In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and silent,
Like war's swart powder in a castle vault,
Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it;

Flatter the waiting-woman, bribe the valet;
But know, that I her father play the Gryphon,
Tameless and sleepless, proof to fraud or bribe,
And guard the hidden treasure of her beauty.
The Spanish Father.

(16.)-CHAP. XXXV.

It is a time of danger, not of revel,
When churchmen turn to masquers.
The Spanish Father.


Ay, sir-our ancient crown, in these wild times,
Oft stood upon a cast-the gamester's ducat,
So often staked, and lost, and then regain'd,
Scarce knew so many hazards.

The Spanish Father.

From Kenilworth.



"AFTER Some brief interval, Master Goldthred, at the earnest instigation of mine host, and the joyous concurrence of his guests, indulged the company with the following morsel of melody :”— Of all the birds on bush or tree, Commend me to the owl, Since he may best ensample be To those the cup that trowl.

Then comes at once the lightning and the thun- For when the sun hath left the west,


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He chooses the tree that he loves the best,

And he whoops out his song, and he laughs at his jest,

Then, though hours be late, and weather foul, We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny owl

The lark is but a bumpkin fowl,

He sleeps in his nest till morn;
But my blessing upon the jolly owl,
That all night blows his horn.

Then up with your cup till you stagger in speech,
And match me this catch, till you swagger and

And drink till you wink, my merry men each;
For, though hours be late, and weather be foul,
We'll drink to the health of the bonny, bonny


Chap. ii

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