To meditate what rural life displays;
Trees statelier do not canopy with gloom
The brooks of Valombrosa; nor do flowers,
Beneath Ausonia's sky that seldom lowers,
Empurple deep-dyed Brenta's banks with bloom
Fairer than thine at sweet Lasswade: so bright
Thou gleam'st, a mirror for the cooing dove,
That sidelong eyes its purpling form with love
Well pleased; mid blossomy brakes, with bosom light,
All day the linnet carols; and from grove
The blackbird sings to thee at fall of night.
Down from the old oak forests of Dalkeith,
Where majesty surrounds a ducal home,
Between fresh pastures gleaming thou dost come,
Bush, scaur, and rock, and hazelly shaw beneath,
Till, greeting thee from slopes of orchard ground,
Towers Inveresk with its proud villas fair,
Scotland's Montpelier, for salubrious air
And beauteous prospect wide and far renowned.
What else could be, since thou with winding tide
Below dost ripple pleasantly, thy green
And osiered banks outspread, where, frequent seen,
The browsing heifer shows her dappled side,
And mid the bloom-bright furze are oft descried
Anglers, that patient o'er thy mirror lean?
DELIGHTFUL 't is, and soothing sweet, at eve,
When sunlight like a dream hath passed away
O'er Pentland's far-off peaks, and shades of gray
Around the landscape enviously weave,
To saunter o'er this high walk canopied
With scented hawthorn, while the trellised bowers
Are rich with rose and honeysuckle flowers,
And gaze o'er plains and woods outstretching wide
Till bounded by the Morphoot's heights of blue,
That range along the low southwest afar;
And thee, translucent Esk, with face of blue ;
While, as enamored, evening's first fair star
Looks on thy pool its loveliness to view.
A BEECH-TREE o'er the mill-stream spreads its boughs, In many an eddy whirls the wave beneath;
From Stony-bank the west-wind's perfumed breath
Sighs past, 't is summer's gentle evening close;
Smooth Esk, above thy tide the midges weave,
Mixing and meeting oft, their fairy dance;
While o'er the crown of Arthur's Seat a glance
Of crimson plays, the sunshine's glorious leave;
Except the blackbird from the dim Shire Wood,
All else is still. So passes human life
- a dream within a dream: Ah! where are they, who with me, by this stream,
Roamed ere this world was known as one of strife? Comes not an answer from the solitude!
LEANING upon the time-worn parapet
Of this old Roman bridge, that to the bay
Of Forth hath seen thee, Esk, gliding away
From age to age, and spans thee gliding yet,
Before me I behold thy sea-most town,
Yclept in Saxon Chronicles Eske-mouthe,
Its venerable roofs, its spire uncouth,
And Pinkie's field of sorrowful renown.
Scenes of my childhood, manhood, and decline, —
Scenes that my sorrows and my joys have known,
Ye saw my birth, and be my dust your own,
When, as these waters mingle with the sea,
To look upon the light no more is mine,
And time is swallowed in eternity!
On receiving the submission of the civic authorities, and the surrender of the castle, Prince Charles Edward entered Carlisle on Monday the 18th November, 1745, preceded by one hundred pipers. So far the poetess has sung truly. But she is historically at fault with reference to the "two thousand." So many Highlanders of the Chevalier's army did indeed wade across the Esk, but it was in flight, not in triumph. They waded the Esk on their return to Scotland from an expedition which boded disaster.
Wwi a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
O, we 'll on, an' we'll march to Carlisle Ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
O, our brave sodger lads looked braw, an' braw,
Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glitterin' gear,
An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
O, second-sichted Sandie looked fu' wae,
An' mithers grat sair whan they marched away.
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
O, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
Wi' his hundred pipers, etc.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
Dumfoundered the English were a', were a',
Dumfoundered they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
Carolina, Baroness Nairne.
ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.
N Ettrick Forest's mountains dun
"T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude;
By many a cairn and trenchéd mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where gray-haired shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.
Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
'Tis blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
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