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“Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar; Ridley is riding his fleet-footed gray;

Hidley and Howard there,

Wandale and Windermere;
Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay.

"Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston ? Why does the joy-candle gleam in thine eye?

Thou bold Border ranger,

Beware of thy danger;
Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh.”

Jack Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit,
His hand rasped the sword with a nervous embrace:

"Ah, welcome, brave foemen,

On earth there are no men
More gallant to meet in the foray or chase!

“Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might

Linhope and Sornie true,

Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manners, but lions in fight!

"I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array;

Come all Northumberland,

Teesdale and Cumberland,
Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray!"

Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddesdale, Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold;

Many a bold martial eye

Mirrored that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold.

Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warriors' shout, Lances and halberds in splinters were borne;

Helmet and hauberk then

Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn.

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See how they wane the proud files of the Windermere Howard ! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day!

Hear the wide welkin rend ,

While the Scots' shouts ascend "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!"

J. Hogg.

31. THE REQUITAL.

Loud roared the tempest,

Fast fell the sleet;
A little Child Angel

Passed down the street,
With trailing pinions,

And weary feet.

The moon was hidden;

No stars were bright;
So she could not shelter

In Heaven that night:
For the Angels' ladders

Are rays of light.

She beat her wings

At each window pane,
And pleaded for shelter,

But all in vain:
"Listen," they said,

“To the pelting rain!"

She sobbed, as the laughter

And mirth grew higher, “Give me rest and shelter

Beside your fire, And I will give you

Your heart's desire."

The dreamer sat watching

His embers gleam, While his heart was floating

Down hope's bright stream; So he wove her wailing

Into his dream.

The worker toiled on,

For his time was brief;
The mourner was nursing

Her own pale grief:
They heard not the promise

That brought relief.

But fiercer the tempest

Rose than before, When the Angel paused

At a humble door, And asked for shelter

And help once more.

A weary woman,

Pale, worn, and thin, With the brand upon her

Of want and sin, Heard the Child Angel

And took her in.

Took her in gently,

And did her best To dry her pinions;

And made her rest With tender pity

Upon her breast.

When the eastern morning

Grew bright and red,
Up the first sunbeam

The Angel fled;
Having kissed the woman

And left her dead.

A. A. PROCTER.

32. ROBIN ADAIR.

Welcome on shore again,

Robin Adair!
Welcome once more again,

Robin Adair!
I feel thy trembling hand,
Tears in thy eyelids stand ,
To greet thy native land ,

Robin Adair!

Long I ne'er saw thee, love,

Robin Adair!
Still I prayed, for thee, love,

Robin Adair!
When thou wert far at sea ,
Many made love to me,
But still I thought on thee,

Robin Adair!

Come to my heart again,

Robin Adair !
Never to part again,

Robin Adair!
And if thou still art true,
I will be constant too,
And will wed none but you,

Robin Adair!

33

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,

As his corpse to the rampart we hurried ; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot

O'er the grave where our hero we buried.

We buried him darkly at dead of night,

The sods with our bayonets turning,
By the struggling moonbeam's misty light,

And the lantern dimly burning.

No useless coffin enclosed his breast,

Not in sheet or in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,

With his martial cloak around him!

Few and short were the prayers we said,

And we spoke not a word of sorrow;
But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead,

And we bitterly thought of the morrow.

We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,

And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,

And we far away on the billow!

Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,

And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him
But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on

In the grave where a Briton has laid him.

But half of our heavy task was done,

When the clock struck the hour for retiring : And we heard the distant and randomi gun,

That the foe was sullenly firing.

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