The Friar has walk'd out, and where'er he has gone, For every man's house is the Barefooted Friar's. 5. He's expected at noon, and no wight, till he comes, May profane the great chair, or the porridge of plums; For the best of the cheer, and the seat by the fire, 6. He's expected at night, and the pasty's made hot, They broach the brown ale, and they fill the black pot; (3.)-SAXON WAR-SONG. "THE fire was spreading rapidly through all parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, such as was of yore chanted on the field of battle by the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled grey hair flew back from her uncovered head; the inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contended in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters, who spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tradition has preserved some wild strophes of the barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid that scene of fire and slaughter: ". The sword cleaveth the helmet; The strong armour is pierced by the lance: The race of Hengist is gone The name of Horsa is no more! Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the sword! your swords while your blood is warm. And spare neither for pity nor fear, For vengeance hath but an hour; Strong hate itself shall expire! I also must perish. By day, along the astonish'd lands There rose the choral hymn of praise, And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays, With priest's and warrior's voice between. No portents now our foes amaze, Forsaken Israel wanders lone: Our fathers would not know THY ways, But present still, though now unseen! Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams, And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn. But THOU hast said, The blood of goat, The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice. Chap. xl. (5.)-THE BLACK KNIGHT'S SONG. "AT the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore a stiff and mellow burthen to the better instructed Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:" Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn, WAMBA. O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet, Chap. xli. Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll, From the Monastery. 1820. (1.)-SONGS OF THE WHITE LADY OF AVENEL. (8.)-CHAP. XXXVII. Anonymous. Say not my art is fraud-all live by seeming. (9.) CHAP. XXXVIII. Of tyrant power she shook, and call'd that power of God. The Middle Ages. Epitaph on Mrs. Erskine.1 1819. PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind, Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd; ON TWEED RIVER. 1. MERRILY Swim we, the moon shines bright, That flings its broad branches so far and so wide, 2. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, I see the Abbey, both turret and tower, It is all astir for the vesper hour; The Monks for the chapel are leaving each cell, But where 's Father Philip should toll the bell? 3. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, The Kelpy has risen from the fathomless pool, 1 Mrs. Euphemia Robison, wife of William Erskine, Esq. buried at Saline, in the county of Fife, where these lines are (afterwards Lord Kinedder,) died September, 1819, and was inscribed on the tombstone. "In the name of MY Master," said the astonished Monk, "that name before which all things created tremble, I conjure thee to say what thou art that hauntest me thus?" The same voice replied, That which is neither ill nor well, That which belongs not to heaven nor to hell, In the beams of the setting sun, am I. Vainly, Sir Prior, wouldst thou bar me my right! Like the star when it shoots, I can dart through the night; I can dance on the torrent, and ride on the air, And travel the world with the bonny night-mare. Again, again, At the crook of the glen, Where bickers the burnie, I'll meet thee again. TO HALBERT. YOUTH of the dark eye, wherefore didst thou call me? Wherefore art thou here, if terrors can appal thee? He that seeks to deal with us must know nor fear, nor failing; To coward and churl our speech is dark, our gifts are unavailing. The breeze that brought me hither now must sweep Egyptian ground, The fleecy cloud on which I ride for Araby is bound; The fleecy cloud is drifting by, the breeze sighs for my stay, For I must sail a thousand miles before the close of day. What I am I must not show- Every change of human passion, 1 Sackless-Innocent. |