And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, See, the east grows wan- To the wrath of man. At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe The legend heard him say: Ere closed that bloody day. He sleeps far from his highland heathBut often of the Dance of Death His comrades tell the tale On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild, speaking The language alternate of rapture and wo: O! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking, The pang that I feel at our parting can know. Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er him, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb: Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me. Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the tree Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. HUNTING SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear; Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Louder, louder chant the lay, THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm, There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death, Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The spectre with his bloody hand,* Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time is meet to awake the dead! "Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, And on your shores her Norsemen flung? "Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange "O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in song enroll'd, For Albion's weal in battle bold;- "By all their swords, by all their scars, At the dread voice of other years They owed the conquest to his arm, And then they bound the holy knot That were in chapel there, THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, And thus he sung his last good morrow: "My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my truelove's bower; Gayly for love and fame to fight Befits the gallant Troubadour." And while he march'd with helm on head The minstrel burden still he sung: "My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour." E'en when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay : "My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield, Expiring sung th' exulting stave: "My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME.* BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth; The north for ance has bang'd the south; The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth, Carle, now the king's come. CHORUS. Carle, now the king's come! Auld England held him lang and fast; Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray, But, Carle, now the king's come! She's skirling frae the Castle Hill, Carle, now the king's come! "Up, bairns," she cries, " baith great and sma', And busk ye for the weapon shaw! Stand by me and we'll bang them a'! Carle, now the king's come! Come, from Newbattle's ancient spires, Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, And match the mettle of your sires, Carle, now the king's come! "You're welcome hame, my Montague !+ Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh ;— I'm missing some that I may rue, Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, "Come, premier duke,‡ and carry doun, But, Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud ;— Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood,— Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids; Carle, now the king's come! "Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, "King Arthur's grown a common crier, Carle, now the king's come!" Cogie, now the king's come! * Seat of the Marquis of Lothian. + Uncle to the Duke of Buccleugh. + Hamilton. § The castle. Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble-looking old man, and a fine specimen of an ancient baron. There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat. **The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the * Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Scot Frith of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, anxland, in August, 1822. lously looking for the royal squadron. |