SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.

I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,
Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl
Inch after inch along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blythesome welcome blythely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee-
That life is lost to love and me.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

He is gone on the mountain,

He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest ;
But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. Modernised from the ancient ballad of " Jock o' Hazelgreen."

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladye—

Why weep ye by the tide ?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride;
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,
Sae comely to be seen:"

But

aye

she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen :"
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

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.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From "Rokeby."

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine;

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me you knew, my love;
No more of me you knew.

This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But it shall bloom in winter snow

Ere we two meet again.
He turn'd his charger as he spake

Upon the river shore ;

He gave his bridle-reins a shake,

Said, Adieu for evermore, my love;
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 ;
But Peggy's grown the fairest flower
The braes o' Ettrick ever saw.
Her cheek is like the woodland rose,
Her ee the violet set wi' dew;
The lily's fair without compare,
Yet in her bosom tines its hue.

Had I her hame at my wee house,
That stands aneath yon mountain high,
To help me wi' the kye an' ewes,
An' in my arms at e'ening lie;
Oh, sae blythe, an', oh, sae cheery,
Oh, sae happy we wad be!
The lammie to the ewe is dear,

But Peggy's dearer far to me.