Now, from the summit to the plain,
Waves all the hill with yellow grain;

And o'er the landscape as I look,
Naught do I see unchanged remain,
Save the rude cliffs and chiming brook.
To me they make a heavy moan,

Of early friendships past and gone.

Sir Walter Scott.

Bothwell Castle.

BOTHWELL CASTLE.

PASSED UNSEEN, ON ACCOUNT OF STORMY WEATHER.

MMURED in Bothwell's towers, at times the brave

IMMUR

(So beautiful is Clyde) forgot to mourn

The liberty they lost at Bannockburn.

Once on those steeps I roamed at large, and have
In mind the landscape, as if still in sight;
The river glides, the woods before me wave;
Then why repine that now in vain I crave
Needless renewal of an old delight?
Better to thank a dear and long-past day
For joy its sunny hours were free to give

Than blame the present, that our wish hath crossed.
Memory, like sleep, hath powers which dreams obey,
Dreams, vivid dreams, that are not fugitive:

How little that she cherishes is lost!

William Wordsworth.

Brackley.

GORDON OF BRACKLEY.

OWN Dee side came Inveraye,

DOWN

Whistling and playing;

And called loud at Brackley gate,
Ere the day dawing,
"Come, Gordon of Brackley,
Proud Gordon, come down;
A sword's at your threshold,
Mair sharp than your own."

The Gordon sprang up,

Put his helm on his head; Laid his hand on his sword,

And his thigh on his steed, And stooped low and said,

As he kissed his young dame, "There's a Gordon rides out That will never ride hame."

Wi' sword and wi' dagger
He rushed on him rude;
And the gay gallant Gordon
Lies bathed in his blude.

Frae the sources of Dee

To the mouth of the Spey, The Highlanders mourn for him And curse Inveraye.

"O, came ye by Brackley,
And what saw ye there?
Was his young widow weeping
And tearing her hair?"

"I came in by Brackley,

I came in, and O,

There was mirth, there was feasting,

But nothing of woe.

"As a rose bloomed the lady,

And blithe as a bride;

Like a bridegroom bold Inveraye
Smiled at her side.

And she feasted him there,

As she ne'er feasted lord,
Though the blood of her husband
Was moist on his sword."

There's grief in the cottage
And tears in the ha',
For the gay gallant Gordon
That's dead and awa'.

To the bush comes the bud,

And the flower to the plain,
But the good and the brave,
They come never again.

Allan Cunningham.

Branksome Hall.

BRANKSOME HALL.

THE feast was over in Branksome tower,

And the Ladye had gone to her secret bower; Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell, Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell,

Jesu Maria, shield us well!

No living wight, save the Ladye alone,
Had dared to cross the threshold stone.

The tables were drawn, it was idlesse all;
Knight and page and household squire,

Loitered through the lofty hall,

Or crowded round the ample fire; The stag-hounds, weary with the chase, Lay stretched upon the rushy floor, And urged, in dreams, the forest race, From Teviot stone to Eskdale moor.

Nine-and-twenty knights of fame

Hung their shields in Branksome Hall;
Nine-and-twenty squires of name

Brought them their steeds to bower from stall;
Nine-and-twenty yeomen tall

Waited, duteous, on them all:
They were all knights of metal true,
Kinsmen to the bold Buccleuch.

Ten of them were sheathed in steel,
With belted sword and spur on heel:
They quitted not their harness bright,
Neither by day, nor yet by night;
They lay down to rest,

With corselet laced,

Pillowed on buckler cold and hard;

They carved at the meal

With gloves of steel,

And they drank the red wine through the helmet barred.

Ten squires, ten yeomen, mail-clad men,
Waited the beck of the warders ten;
Thirty steeds, both fleet and wight,
Stood saddled in stable day and night,