« PreviousContinue »
There, through the summer day,
Cool streams are laving;
Scarce are boughs waving ;
Parted for ever,
Where shall the traitor rest,
He the deceiver,
Ruin, and leave her!
Borne down by the flying,
Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false-hearted;
Ere life be parted;
By his grave ever ;
THE CAPTIVE HUNTSMAN.
SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the “Lady of the Lake.”
My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
I wish I were as I have been,
I hate to learn the ebb of time
No more at dawning morn I rise,
Sir WALTER SCOTT. From the “Lady of the Lake."
He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
When our need was the sorest.
From the rain-drops shall borrow;
To Duncan no morrow !
The hand of the reaper
Takes the ears that are boary ;
Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing
Waft the leaves that are searest;
When blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
How sound is thy slumber !
Like the foam on the river,
Thou art gone, and for ever!
JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.
SiR WALTER SCOTT. Modernised from the ancient ballad of “ Jock o' Hazelgreen.”
“A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;
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 were there : They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladye was not seen ! She's o'er the Border and awa
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean !
A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine;
And press the rue for wine.
A feather of the blue,
No more of me you knew.
This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain ;
Ere we two meet again.
Upon the river shore ;
his bridle-reins a shake,
And adieu for evermore.
JAMES HOGG, the “ Ettrick Shepherd,” born Jan. 25, 1772, died Nov. 21, 1835.
Air—" Andro and his cutty gun."
On Ettrick clear there grows a brier,
An' monie a bonnie bloomin' shaw;
The braes o’ Ettrick ever saw.
Her ee the violet set wi' dew;
Yet in her bosom tines its hue.
Had I her hame at my wee house,
That stands aneath yon mountain high,
An' in my arms at e’ening lie;
Oh, sae happy we wad be!
But Peggy's dearer far to me.