(4.)-CHAP. XXXV. I beseech you — (2.)-NORMAN THE FORESTER'S SONG. "AND humming his rustic roundelay, the yeoman went on his road, the sound of his rough voice gradually dying away as the distance betwixt them increased." THE monk must arise when the matins ring, But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing, 'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time. There's bucks and raes on Billhope braes, There's a herd on Shortwood Shaw; But a lily white doe in the garden goes, She's fairly worth them a'. (3.) THE PROPHECY. Chap. iii. "WITH a quivering voice, and a cheek pale with These tears beseech you, and these chaste hands apprehension, Caleb faltered out the following lines:" The Legend of Montrose. (1.)-ANCIENT GAELIC MELODY. "So saying, Annot Lyle sate down at a little distance upon the bench on which Allan M'Aulay was placed, and tuning her clairshach, a small harp, about (2.) THE ORPHAN MAID. "TUNING her instrument, and receiving an assenting look from Lord Monteith and Allan, Annot Lyle executed the following ballad, which our friend, Mr. Secundus M'Pherson, whose goodness we had before When, vain his strength and Mahound's spell, 5. "Joy to the fair!-my name unknown, I feel the north breeze chill as death; (2.)-THE BAREFOOTED FRIAR. 1. I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain, To search Europe through from Byzantium to Spain; But ne'er shall you find, should you search till you tire, So happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. 2. Your knight for his lady pricks forth in career, with a spear; I confess him in haste-for his lady desires No comfort on earth save the Barefooted Friar's. 3. Your monarch!-Pshaw! many a prince has been known To barter his robes for our cowl and our gown; To exchange for a crown the grey hood of a Friar? 4. 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: " 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: 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. |