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To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,
And high and low the influence know-
But where is County Guy?

432

433

THE ROVER

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green-
No more of me you knew
My Love!

No more of me you knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again.'

He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said Adieu for evermore
My Love!

And adieu for evermore.'

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower

And slow decay from mourning,

''.

Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
To watch her Love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decay'd by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.

By fits a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;

By fits so ashy pale she grew
Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seem'd in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog prick'd his ear
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenn'd
She knew and waved to greet him,
And o'er the battlement did bend
As on the wing to meet him.

He came he pass'd-an heedless gaze
As o'er some stranger glancing:
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.

434

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Pibroch of Donuil
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,

Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges:
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended,

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Knell for the onset!

435

BORDER BALLAD

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,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

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,

Stand to your arms and march in good order;
England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

436

THE PRIDE OF YOUTH

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.'

'Who makes the bridal bed,
Birdie, say truly?'
-The gray-headed sexton
That delves the grave duly.

437

438

'The glowworm o'er grave and stone Shall light thee steady;

The owl from the steeple sing,

Welcome, proud lady.'

CORONACH

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,
When our need was the sorest.
The font reappearing

From the raindrops shall borrow,
But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are serest,
But our flower was in flushing
When blighting was nearest.

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.

LUCY ASHTON'S SONG

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;

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