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O OPEN the door, some pity to show; Keen blows the northern wind, The glen is white with the drifted snow; And the path is hard to find.
"No Outlaw seeks your castle-gate,
"A weary Palmer, worn and weak, I wander for my sin;
O open, for your lady's sake,
"I'll give you pardons from the pope,
"The hare is crouching in her form, The hart beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,
"You hear the Ettricke's sullen roar,
"The iron gate is bolted hard,
"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
For lo, when, through the vapours dank,
A corpse amid the alders rank,
WANDERING WILLIE. ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me,
And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wandered beside it,
And banned it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune;
Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome worth twenty at parting,
Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were
wailing, I sate on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing,
And wished that the tempest could a' blaw on me. Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame, Music to me were the wildest winds roaring,
That ere o'er Inch Keith drove the dark ocean faem. When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did
rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,
And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,
Of each bold adventure, of every brave scar: And, trust me, I'll smile, though my e'en they may glisten;
For sweet after danger 's the tale of the war. And oh how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart through
the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers,
And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pondered,
If love would change notes like the bird on the treeNow l'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wandered,
Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,
Hardships and danger despising for fame, Furnishing story for glory's bright annal,
Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and' hame. Enough now thy story in annals of glory
Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain; No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me,
I never will part with my Willie again.
THE MAID OF NEIDPATH THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that, when Neid path Castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the Earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family and a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettricke Forest. As the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell in a consumption; and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as be rode past. Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on, without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an incident similar to this traditional tale in Count Hamilton's “Fleur d'Epine.”
O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
Can lend an hour of cheering.
And slow decay from mourning,
To watch her love's returning.
Her form decayed by pining,
You saw the taper shining;
Across her cheek was flying;
Her 'maidens thought her dying.
Seemed in her frame residing;
She heard her lover's riding;
She knew, and waved, to greet him;
As on the wing to meet him.
He came--he passed-a heedless gaze,
As o’er some stranger glancing,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
Returns each whisper spoken,
Which told her heart was broken.
THE BARD'S INCANTATION.
AUTUMN OF 1804.
It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree;
Is whistling the forest lullaby :-
That mingles with the groaning oak-
And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;-
Minstrels and Bards of other days!
And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
To what high strain your harps were strung,
And on your shores her Norsemen fiung?
Skilled to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doomed to die
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Mimic the harp's wild harmony !
By every deed in song enrolled,
For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
By all their names, a mighty spell !
Arise, the mighty strain to tell ;
Strange murmurs fill my tinkling ears,
At the dread voice of other years
TO A LADY.
WITH FLOWERS FROM A ROMAN WALL.
On the ruined rampart grew,
Rome's imperial standards flew. c Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.
& The Galgacus of Tacitus.