On high the dazzling blaze to rear, 'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, Days free from thought, and nights from care, Sir Walter Scott. "0, Ettrick, the River. THE PALMER. OPEN the door, some pity to show, The glen is white with the drifted snow, "No outlaw seeks your castle gate, Might claim compassion here. "A weary Palmer, worn and weak, O, open, for Our Lady's sake! "I'll give you pardons from the Pope, "The hare is crouching in her form, The hart beside the hind; An aged man, amid the storm, No shelter can I find. "You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar, "The iron gate is bolted hard, Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, When old and frail you be, You never may the shelter want That's now denied to me." The Ranger on his couch lay warm, But oft, amid December's storm, For lo, when through the vapors dank A corpse amid the alders rank, The Palmer weltered there. Sir Walter Scott. 0 ETTRICK. MURMURING waters! Have ye no message for me? Did he not utter one word, And trust that its sound o'er the rush O murmuring waters! The sounds of the moorlands I hear, The scream of the heron and the eagle, The bell of the deer; The rustling of heather and feru, The shiver of grass on the lea, The sigh of the wind from the hill, Hast thou no voice for me? O murmuring waters! Flow on, ye have no voice for me; Bear the wild songs of the hills Bright stream, from the founts of the west O, to be borne to my rest In the cold waves with thee! Lady John Scott. Evan, the River. EVAN BANKS. LOW spreads the gloom my soul desires, SLOW The sun from India's shore retires; To Evan banks with temperate ray, O stream whose murmurs still I hear! And she, in simple beauty drest, Ye lofty banks that Evan bound! And o'er the stream your shadows throw, Can all the wealth of India's coast From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. Helen Maria Williams. Fife. FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT. NIFE, an' a' the land about it, FIFE Fife, an' a' the land about it; We'll raise the song on highest key, |