THE DYING GIPSY'S DIRGE

From Guy Mannering

WASTED, weary, wherefore stay,
Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away;-

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed,

Saints to help thee at thy need ;-
Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;

Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,

And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone,
Earth flits fast, and time draws on,—

Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
Day is near the breaking.

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride.
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen "-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen

But aye she loot the tears down fa'.
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.

They sought her baith by bower and ha';

The ladie was not seen! She's o'er the Border, and awa' Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

NORA'S VOW

HEAR What Highland Nora said
"The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
"Are lightly made and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son!"

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turned the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-She's wedded to the Earlie's son !

VERSES FOUND IN BOTHWELL'S

POCKET-BOOK

From Old Mortality

THY hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright,
As in that well-remember'd night,
When first thy mystic braid was wove,
And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

Since then how often hast thou press'd
The torrid zone of this wild breast,

Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
With the first sin which peopled hell.
A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion !—
O, if such clime thou canst endure,

Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
I had not wander'd wild and wide,

With such an angel for my guide;

Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me,

If she had lived, and lived to love me.

Not then this world's wild joys had been To me one savage hunting scene, My sole delight the headlong race, And frantic hurry of the chase; To start, pursue, and bring to bay, Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey, Then from the carcase turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed, And sooth'd each wound which pride inflam'd! Yes, God and man might now approve me, If thou hadst lived, and lived to love me.

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL*

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore;

Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

CLEVELAND'S SONG *

From The Pirate

FAREWELL! farewell! the voice

you hear,
Has left its last soft tone with you,-
Its next must join the seaward cheer,
And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form
Beneath your frown's controlling check,
Must give the word, above the storm,

To cut the mast, and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise,—

The hand, that shook when press'd to thine,

Must point the guns upon the chase—
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear,—
Honour, or own, a long adieu!
To all that life has soft and dear,
Farewell! save memory of you!