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And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending, Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game. She has blazel over Ettrick eight ages and more;

In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

Lullaby of an Enfant Chief.
When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

AIR-" Cadul gu lo.": At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,

1815. or around them were marshall’d the pride of the Border,

I. The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of Buc

0, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Then with the Banner, &c.

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; up

The woods and the glens, from the towers which we

see, Stripling's weak hand' to our revel has borne her, No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen sur

They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee. round;

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo, But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.

A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

0, fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
with the Banner, &c.

It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
We forget each contention of civil dissension,

Their bows would be bended, their blades would And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and

red, CAR:

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed. And Elliot and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle,

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

111. Then up with the Banner, &c.

0, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the wea- When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; ther,

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,

For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. There are worse things in life than a tumble on hea

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. ther, And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

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1 The bearer of the standard was the Author's eldest son. Mr. Terry's drama of " Guy Mannering." (The “ Lullaby'

9 “ Sleep on till day." These words, adapted to a melody was first printed in Mr. Terry's drama : it was afterwards set somewhat erent from the original, are sung my friend to music in Thomson's Collection. 1822.)

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Be it lad, or be it lass,

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Sign wi' cross, and sain wi' mass.

Earth flits fast, and time draws on,

Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Trefoil, vervain, John's-wort, dill,

Day is near the breaking.
Hinders witches of their will;
Weel is them, that weel may

“ The songstress paused, and was answered by one Fast upon St. Andrew's day.

or two deep and hollow groans, that seemed to pro

ceed from the very agony of the mortal strife. It Saint Bride and her brat

will not be,' she muttered to herself. He cannot Saint Colme and her cat,

pass away with that on his mind; it tethers him here. Saint Michael and his spear,

Heaven cannot abide it;
Keep the house frae reif and wear.

Earth refuses to hide it.
Chap. iii.

I must open the door.'

She lifted the latch, saying,

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“Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your The Return to Ulster.'

train, And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again."


ONCE again,—but how changed since my wand'rings

Jock of Hazeldean.

AIR-A Border Melodly.
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar

That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.
Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn?
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return! The first stanza of this Ballad is ancient. The others
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn's Anthology. That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain ?

I. It was then that around me, though poor and un- “Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ? known,

Why weep ye by the tide ? High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown; I'll wed ye to my youngest son, The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,

And ye sall be his bride: The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

And ye sall be his bride, ladie, I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire

Sae comely to be seen ”-
At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.
To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the car,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.


“ Now let this wilfu' grief be done, Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And dry that cheek so pale; And renew'd the wild pomp of the chase and the Young Frank is chief of Errington, hall;

And lord of Langley-dale; And the standard of Fion flash'd fierce from on high, His step is first in peaceful ha', Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.

His sword in battle keen”It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more

But aye she loot the tears down fa' Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.

For Jock of Hazeldean. Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou burn?

III. They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

“A chain of gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair;
But was she, too, a phantom, the Maid who stood by, Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye ?

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Then dispersed in the sunbeam, or melted to dew ?

Shall ride our forest queen
Oh ! would it had been so,-Oh! would that her eye But aye she loot the tears down fa'
Had been but a star-glance that shot through the

For Jock of Hazeldean.
And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,

IV. Had been but a zephyr, that sigh’d and was still !

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;
Oh! would it had been so,-not then this poor heart The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
Had learn’d the sad lesson, to love and to part;

And dame and knight are there.
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,

They sought her baith by bower and ha'; While I toil'd for the wealth I had no one to share.

The ladie was not seen ! Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,

She's o'er the Border, and awa' And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,

Wi’ Jock of Hazeldean,


I First published in Mr. G. Thomson's Collection of Irish Lirs. 1816.

2 In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun beam of Macpherson.

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