[Decoration]
Hurrahfor Scotland's ancient flag!Now floating on the breeze;Its every wave in vision paintsA clime beyond the seas.And, as that music fills the airWhich breathes of mountain-steep,Our spirits wander back againTo where our fathers sleep.Again we hear the dashing foamWhich plunges down the dell;Or ramble o'er the broomy knowes,Or cull the sweet bluebell.Or sit in restful gloaming-tide,'Neath honeysuckle porch,And watch the tewhits winging lowBeyond the old, grey church,As balmy breath of briar and thymeComes wafted o'er the moor,And sheds the gold, laburnum fringeUpon its grassy floor.Or linger by the martyrs' grave;Or tread the hallowed sodWhere Hope and Valour stoutly foughtFor country and for God.The Cora Lynn yet sings the dirgeAnd deeds of Wallace wight;Whilst Bannockburn still echoes forthWho bravely died for right.Oh! beauteous, tender mountain land!Where'er thy children roam,Along their lives the heartstrings thrillTo tune of "Home! sweet Home!"Thy halls of learning grace the earth,And dignify the nameWhich side by side hath ever stoodWith honor, truth and fame.Thy sons, who now with strong, right armThe stone and hammer wield,Type well the sires who glory gained,Or perished on the field.Now, three cheers for our Highland Chief!Three more for the Macneill![Note]Three for all those who fondly prizeThe land we lovesae weel!And three cheers for our noble Queen!Who from the Bruce descends;Whose life, attuned to sympathy,A nation's love defends.
Hurrahfor Scotland's ancient flag!Now floating on the breeze;Its every wave in vision paintsA clime beyond the seas.And, as that music fills the airWhich breathes of mountain-steep,Our spirits wander back againTo where our fathers sleep.Again we hear the dashing foamWhich plunges down the dell;Or ramble o'er the broomy knowes,Or cull the sweet bluebell.Or sit in restful gloaming-tide,'Neath honeysuckle porch,And watch the tewhits winging lowBeyond the old, grey church,As balmy breath of briar and thymeComes wafted o'er the moor,And sheds the gold, laburnum fringeUpon its grassy floor.Or linger by the martyrs' grave;Or tread the hallowed sodWhere Hope and Valour stoutly foughtFor country and for God.The Cora Lynn yet sings the dirgeAnd deeds of Wallace wight;Whilst Bannockburn still echoes forthWho bravely died for right.Oh! beauteous, tender mountain land!Where'er thy children roam,Along their lives the heartstrings thrillTo tune of "Home! sweet Home!"Thy halls of learning grace the earth,And dignify the nameWhich side by side hath ever stoodWith honor, truth and fame.Thy sons, who now with strong, right armThe stone and hammer wield,Type well the sires who glory gained,Or perished on the field.Now, three cheers for our Highland Chief!Three more for the Macneill![Note]Three for all those who fondly prizeThe land we lovesae weel!And three cheers for our noble Queen!Who from the Bruce descends;Whose life, attuned to sympathy,A nation's love defends.
Hurrahfor Scotland's ancient flag!Now floating on the breeze;Its every wave in vision paintsA clime beyond the seas.
And, as that music fills the airWhich breathes of mountain-steep,Our spirits wander back againTo where our fathers sleep.
Again we hear the dashing foamWhich plunges down the dell;Or ramble o'er the broomy knowes,Or cull the sweet bluebell.
Or sit in restful gloaming-tide,'Neath honeysuckle porch,And watch the tewhits winging lowBeyond the old, grey church,
As balmy breath of briar and thymeComes wafted o'er the moor,And sheds the gold, laburnum fringeUpon its grassy floor.
Or linger by the martyrs' grave;Or tread the hallowed sodWhere Hope and Valour stoutly foughtFor country and for God.
The Cora Lynn yet sings the dirgeAnd deeds of Wallace wight;Whilst Bannockburn still echoes forthWho bravely died for right.
Oh! beauteous, tender mountain land!Where'er thy children roam,Along their lives the heartstrings thrillTo tune of "Home! sweet Home!"
Thy halls of learning grace the earth,And dignify the nameWhich side by side hath ever stoodWith honor, truth and fame.
Thy sons, who now with strong, right armThe stone and hammer wield,Type well the sires who glory gained,Or perished on the field.
Now, three cheers for our Highland Chief!Three more for the Macneill![Note]Three for all those who fondly prizeThe land we lovesae weel!
And three cheers for our noble Queen!Who from the Bruce descends;Whose life, attuned to sympathy,A nation's love defends.
Hailto the clime of the mist and the mountain!Of cataract foaming in boisterous glee;Hail to Cuchullin! proud-peering through cloudland,In red, rocky grandeur, from sea unto sea.Fair isle of the patriot, the sage and the songster!Thou shrine of the deeds of the noble and brave!Who lived for their kinsmen, who died for their country;Whose ashes repose in a far, foreign grave.Of spirit undaunted, of intellect brightAs the glistening lakes in thy bosom which lie;The archives of learning, the annals of mightShall lustre for ever the heroes of Skye.[Note]Injustice may scathe thee, deep gloom thee surround,Thy night shall yet vanish, bright dawn to restore;When peace and fair plenty once more shall abound,From Macleod's sea-girt castle to Armadale's shore.
Hailto the clime of the mist and the mountain!Of cataract foaming in boisterous glee;Hail to Cuchullin! proud-peering through cloudland,In red, rocky grandeur, from sea unto sea.Fair isle of the patriot, the sage and the songster!Thou shrine of the deeds of the noble and brave!Who lived for their kinsmen, who died for their country;Whose ashes repose in a far, foreign grave.Of spirit undaunted, of intellect brightAs the glistening lakes in thy bosom which lie;The archives of learning, the annals of mightShall lustre for ever the heroes of Skye.[Note]Injustice may scathe thee, deep gloom thee surround,Thy night shall yet vanish, bright dawn to restore;When peace and fair plenty once more shall abound,From Macleod's sea-girt castle to Armadale's shore.
Hailto the clime of the mist and the mountain!Of cataract foaming in boisterous glee;Hail to Cuchullin! proud-peering through cloudland,In red, rocky grandeur, from sea unto sea.Fair isle of the patriot, the sage and the songster!Thou shrine of the deeds of the noble and brave!Who lived for their kinsmen, who died for their country;Whose ashes repose in a far, foreign grave.
Of spirit undaunted, of intellect brightAs the glistening lakes in thy bosom which lie;The archives of learning, the annals of mightShall lustre for ever the heroes of Skye.[Note]Injustice may scathe thee, deep gloom thee surround,Thy night shall yet vanish, bright dawn to restore;When peace and fair plenty once more shall abound,From Macleod's sea-girt castle to Armadale's shore.
Whene'erI hear the well-kent tuneMy heart gangs ower the seaAnd communes with the loved o' yoreIn the dear auld countrie.Ance mair I run, wi' lichtsome stepAnd spirits fu' o' gleeAne o' a joyous, childish groupTo school, in fair Dundee.Ah! many a year has come and ganeYet, time's long bridge atweenI overstep, and live the pastAs if it happed yestreen.Though mony a hand is cauld in death,And mony a grave grows greenO' those that made the Yule-tide brichtAnd hanselled Hallowe'en.But, sometimes from the music creepsA sicht that blurs the sang;—'Twould discord sweetest tones e'er sung,And put the minstrel wrang.It is the picture o' a hameO' Scotland's peasantry;In front stands Graeme of ClaverhouseThebrawViscount Dundee.The troopers rein their panting steedsTheir General's will to bide;As, clinging to their mother's gownThe frightened bairnies hide.I hear the haughty "Where is he?"But—Oh, she answers well!Her faithful heart love fortified,"That same I will na tell."Dark grew his scowl; as fierce wild beastDefrauded of its prey,With thirst of blood insatiate,He gave his passions play."Then, woman, thou shalt surely dieWho darest me to my face!"The husband heard these words of doomAnd left his hiding place.Alack, the courtly cavalier!The bonnie, braw[Note]Dundee!What odium of saintly bloodMust ever cling to thee.He stood his human target up,He gave the order "Fire!"Yet, every gun was mute, for anceHis veterans braved his ire.He raised aloft a coward handAnd shot his victim down;—But lang in Scotia's heart will liveThe memory o' John Brown.The widowed knelt upon the sward,Her apron she unbound;And tenderly, her loved deadIn reddening shroud she wound;"What think ye o' your husband now?"The murderer demandsOf the humble woman, in her woeClasped firm by bairnies' hands.She raised the head upon her lap,She kissed the yet warm brow;"I aye thocht muckle o'm," she said"But mair than ever now."Oh, woe for Scotland when her kingStept 'twixt her and her God!And baptized in her martyrs' goreEach cave and moorland sod.And woe to every servile handO' persecution's slaves!Who load their weakling souls wi' guiltAt beck o' deeper knaves.Beyond a' creeds and rites o' rule;True faith shall never fail;As lighthouse built on solid rock'Twill weather every gale.And though, unto the powers that beA loyal lay she'll sing,Auld Scotland's soul will bend to naneSave Heaven's own glorious King.
Whene'erI hear the well-kent tuneMy heart gangs ower the seaAnd communes with the loved o' yoreIn the dear auld countrie.Ance mair I run, wi' lichtsome stepAnd spirits fu' o' gleeAne o' a joyous, childish groupTo school, in fair Dundee.Ah! many a year has come and ganeYet, time's long bridge atweenI overstep, and live the pastAs if it happed yestreen.Though mony a hand is cauld in death,And mony a grave grows greenO' those that made the Yule-tide brichtAnd hanselled Hallowe'en.But, sometimes from the music creepsA sicht that blurs the sang;—'Twould discord sweetest tones e'er sung,And put the minstrel wrang.It is the picture o' a hameO' Scotland's peasantry;In front stands Graeme of ClaverhouseThebrawViscount Dundee.The troopers rein their panting steedsTheir General's will to bide;As, clinging to their mother's gownThe frightened bairnies hide.I hear the haughty "Where is he?"But—Oh, she answers well!Her faithful heart love fortified,"That same I will na tell."Dark grew his scowl; as fierce wild beastDefrauded of its prey,With thirst of blood insatiate,He gave his passions play."Then, woman, thou shalt surely dieWho darest me to my face!"The husband heard these words of doomAnd left his hiding place.Alack, the courtly cavalier!The bonnie, braw[Note]Dundee!What odium of saintly bloodMust ever cling to thee.He stood his human target up,He gave the order "Fire!"Yet, every gun was mute, for anceHis veterans braved his ire.He raised aloft a coward handAnd shot his victim down;—But lang in Scotia's heart will liveThe memory o' John Brown.The widowed knelt upon the sward,Her apron she unbound;And tenderly, her loved deadIn reddening shroud she wound;"What think ye o' your husband now?"The murderer demandsOf the humble woman, in her woeClasped firm by bairnies' hands.She raised the head upon her lap,She kissed the yet warm brow;"I aye thocht muckle o'm," she said"But mair than ever now."Oh, woe for Scotland when her kingStept 'twixt her and her God!And baptized in her martyrs' goreEach cave and moorland sod.And woe to every servile handO' persecution's slaves!Who load their weakling souls wi' guiltAt beck o' deeper knaves.Beyond a' creeds and rites o' rule;True faith shall never fail;As lighthouse built on solid rock'Twill weather every gale.And though, unto the powers that beA loyal lay she'll sing,Auld Scotland's soul will bend to naneSave Heaven's own glorious King.
Whene'erI hear the well-kent tuneMy heart gangs ower the seaAnd communes with the loved o' yoreIn the dear auld countrie.Ance mair I run, wi' lichtsome stepAnd spirits fu' o' gleeAne o' a joyous, childish groupTo school, in fair Dundee.
Ah! many a year has come and ganeYet, time's long bridge atweenI overstep, and live the pastAs if it happed yestreen.
Though mony a hand is cauld in death,And mony a grave grows greenO' those that made the Yule-tide brichtAnd hanselled Hallowe'en.
But, sometimes from the music creepsA sicht that blurs the sang;—'Twould discord sweetest tones e'er sung,And put the minstrel wrang.
It is the picture o' a hameO' Scotland's peasantry;In front stands Graeme of ClaverhouseThebrawViscount Dundee.The troopers rein their panting steedsTheir General's will to bide;As, clinging to their mother's gownThe frightened bairnies hide.
I hear the haughty "Where is he?"But—Oh, she answers well!Her faithful heart love fortified,"That same I will na tell."
Dark grew his scowl; as fierce wild beastDefrauded of its prey,With thirst of blood insatiate,He gave his passions play.
"Then, woman, thou shalt surely dieWho darest me to my face!"The husband heard these words of doomAnd left his hiding place.
Alack, the courtly cavalier!The bonnie, braw[Note]Dundee!What odium of saintly bloodMust ever cling to thee.
He stood his human target up,He gave the order "Fire!"Yet, every gun was mute, for anceHis veterans braved his ire.
He raised aloft a coward handAnd shot his victim down;—But lang in Scotia's heart will liveThe memory o' John Brown.
The widowed knelt upon the sward,Her apron she unbound;And tenderly, her loved deadIn reddening shroud she wound;
"What think ye o' your husband now?"The murderer demandsOf the humble woman, in her woeClasped firm by bairnies' hands.
She raised the head upon her lap,She kissed the yet warm brow;"I aye thocht muckle o'm," she said"But mair than ever now."
Oh, woe for Scotland when her kingStept 'twixt her and her God!And baptized in her martyrs' goreEach cave and moorland sod.
And woe to every servile handO' persecution's slaves!Who load their weakling souls wi' guiltAt beck o' deeper knaves.
Beyond a' creeds and rites o' rule;True faith shall never fail;As lighthouse built on solid rock'Twill weather every gale.
And though, unto the powers that beA loyal lay she'll sing,Auld Scotland's soul will bend to naneSave Heaven's own glorious King.
[Decoration]
OldEngland wreathes her gorgeous roseWith minstrelsy sublime;The flower to Highland hearts most dear,I fain would praise in rhyme.It bloometh not in palace grounds,But on the rough hillside;It boasteth no patrician birth,It is a people's pride.Where streamlet leaves its rocky bedTo warble o'er the plain;Where cataract leaps forth in foam,On to the seething main.Down-trampled on the serried fieldWhere love from love was riven;Where patriot soul was offered upAs incense unto Heaven.Where young hearts meet at eventide,The old, old tale to tell;In shady nooks, by purling brooks,There blooms the sweet harebell.Where cadence of the martyrs' hymnBright seraphim revoiced,As e'en from moorland, fen and caveOld Scotia's saints rejoiced.Where ruin mocks those hoary towersIn which mailed knight held sway;Beside the peaceful cottage door,Type of this better day.Bright silvery lochs! dark frowning crags!Which Scotia's history tell;Ye impress on my heart of heartsThe land I love so well.And, through the golden glory-glistO'er mount, and rock and fell,There smileth up to Memory's eyesThe dear, Scotch Heatherbell.
OldEngland wreathes her gorgeous roseWith minstrelsy sublime;The flower to Highland hearts most dear,I fain would praise in rhyme.It bloometh not in palace grounds,But on the rough hillside;It boasteth no patrician birth,It is a people's pride.Where streamlet leaves its rocky bedTo warble o'er the plain;Where cataract leaps forth in foam,On to the seething main.Down-trampled on the serried fieldWhere love from love was riven;Where patriot soul was offered upAs incense unto Heaven.Where young hearts meet at eventide,The old, old tale to tell;In shady nooks, by purling brooks,There blooms the sweet harebell.Where cadence of the martyrs' hymnBright seraphim revoiced,As e'en from moorland, fen and caveOld Scotia's saints rejoiced.Where ruin mocks those hoary towersIn which mailed knight held sway;Beside the peaceful cottage door,Type of this better day.Bright silvery lochs! dark frowning crags!Which Scotia's history tell;Ye impress on my heart of heartsThe land I love so well.And, through the golden glory-glistO'er mount, and rock and fell,There smileth up to Memory's eyesThe dear, Scotch Heatherbell.
OldEngland wreathes her gorgeous roseWith minstrelsy sublime;The flower to Highland hearts most dear,I fain would praise in rhyme.
It bloometh not in palace grounds,But on the rough hillside;It boasteth no patrician birth,It is a people's pride.
Where streamlet leaves its rocky bedTo warble o'er the plain;Where cataract leaps forth in foam,On to the seething main.
Down-trampled on the serried fieldWhere love from love was riven;Where patriot soul was offered upAs incense unto Heaven.
Where young hearts meet at eventide,The old, old tale to tell;In shady nooks, by purling brooks,There blooms the sweet harebell.
Where cadence of the martyrs' hymnBright seraphim revoiced,As e'en from moorland, fen and caveOld Scotia's saints rejoiced.
Where ruin mocks those hoary towersIn which mailed knight held sway;Beside the peaceful cottage door,Type of this better day.
Bright silvery lochs! dark frowning crags!Which Scotia's history tell;Ye impress on my heart of heartsThe land I love so well.
And, through the golden glory-glistO'er mount, and rock and fell,There smileth up to Memory's eyesThe dear, Scotch Heatherbell.
Oh! bonnie is the tender lichtWithin the lovers' een;But, bonnier a soul that's bricht,A conscience ever clean.And braw the form o' manly youth,Wi' bearing firm and free;Yet, grander far the lip o' truth,And heart o' constancy.Oh! radiant gleam the marble hallsAnd mausoleums o' pride;But kindlier the love-licht fallsAround mine ain fireside.And blithe the merry mavis' sangOwer copse, an' clover lea;Yet, cheerier tones I'll lilt ere lang,Through a' eternity.
Oh! bonnie is the tender lichtWithin the lovers' een;But, bonnier a soul that's bricht,A conscience ever clean.And braw the form o' manly youth,Wi' bearing firm and free;Yet, grander far the lip o' truth,And heart o' constancy.Oh! radiant gleam the marble hallsAnd mausoleums o' pride;But kindlier the love-licht fallsAround mine ain fireside.And blithe the merry mavis' sangOwer copse, an' clover lea;Yet, cheerier tones I'll lilt ere lang,Through a' eternity.
Oh! bonnie is the tender lichtWithin the lovers' een;But, bonnier a soul that's bricht,A conscience ever clean.And braw the form o' manly youth,Wi' bearing firm and free;Yet, grander far the lip o' truth,And heart o' constancy.
Oh! radiant gleam the marble hallsAnd mausoleums o' pride;But kindlier the love-licht fallsAround mine ain fireside.And blithe the merry mavis' sangOwer copse, an' clover lea;Yet, cheerier tones I'll lilt ere lang,Through a' eternity.
Itwas a dazzling equipageThat drove up to the door;It was a note with lordly crestThe liveried footman bore.A note for Doctor HarringtonFrom Lady Cecil Grey;It told of sickness at the HallAnd begged for no delay.The young physician ponderedIf luck his path had found;Meanwhile the highly-mettled steedsImpatient paw the ground."'Tis passing strange her ladyshipThough odd, should summon me;"—High hung the omen of success,Bright gleamed the golden fee.Two miles along the country road,Two miles of avenueAnd, 'yond the lily-bordered lake,Fair turrets rise to view.Oh! common ills of base-born lifeHow could ye venture near?Why should your breath, Oh foul disease!Pollute such atmosphere?Deep sadness broodeth o'er the Hall,Scent-laden breezes sigh,Though linnets pipe their tuneful song,And cushat-doves reply.The menials walk with noiseless treadAcross the French-tiled floor;And, on its glittering hingesSwings back the oaken door."Oh doctor!" quoth the Lady GreyWith outstretched jeweled hand,"I am in depths of sore distressBut—you will understand.It comforts me, that to my wishThe answer came so quick;See!" and she drew the screen aside;—"My favorite cat is sick."Well was it that the patient layWithin a darkened room;The sunlight on the doctor's faceHad sunk in sudden gloom.'Twas but a moment; skilled, acuteAnd witty too, withal,With sober and respectful mienHe kept his thoughts in thrall.What were those thoughts? upon that couchBy rarest art compiled,Lay soulless brute, while o'er the wildsStrayed many a starving child.But wealth oft nurseth foiblesTo fill its empty day;And workers cater for its willWho hope for handsome pay.With solemn guise he lent his earFor quite a lengthened space;Then, with a grave obsequiousness,He diagnosed the case."His stomach is, for sure, deranged;No appetite hath he;Yet time and care effect a change,Wilt thou trust him with me?"A maiden, on a cushion soft,The precious tabby boreTo the escutcheoned carriage whichSoon halted as before.And the doctor raised his patientAnd stroked his shiny pate,Then—in the pantry, 'neath a tub,Consigned him to his fate.Withhold thy censure! rude this courseYet savoring keen insight;Four days of prison treatment broughtLuxurious Tabby right.Mote all the victims of excessBe held in durance vileA wholesome world would bloom apace,And peace and plenty smile.The proverb reads "'Tis an ill windThat bloweth no one good"And in the sequel of this taleBe that fact understood.For the fancies of a weaklingAnd over-pampered mindWere ladders by which highest aimCould fairer prospect find.Back came dear Tabby to the HallWith appetite restored;Glad to devour the meanest crumbHe hitherto ignored,To Lady Cecil's wonderment.With generous courtesyShe poured from out her silken purseThe shining golden fee,She placed it in the doctor's hand."Five hundred pounds a yearAs my physician you may claim;"—She praised him far and near.He gained the best of patronageThrough all the country side;He wooed a baron's daughter fair,And won her for his bride.No more chagrin, nor vexed delays;No plodding up the hill;Life's current flowed as peaceful streamWhich works the well-set mill.The noble Countess and her catHave long since passed away;But the witty doctor lives and thrivesIn green old age this day.
Itwas a dazzling equipageThat drove up to the door;It was a note with lordly crestThe liveried footman bore.A note for Doctor HarringtonFrom Lady Cecil Grey;It told of sickness at the HallAnd begged for no delay.The young physician ponderedIf luck his path had found;Meanwhile the highly-mettled steedsImpatient paw the ground."'Tis passing strange her ladyshipThough odd, should summon me;"—High hung the omen of success,Bright gleamed the golden fee.Two miles along the country road,Two miles of avenueAnd, 'yond the lily-bordered lake,Fair turrets rise to view.Oh! common ills of base-born lifeHow could ye venture near?Why should your breath, Oh foul disease!Pollute such atmosphere?Deep sadness broodeth o'er the Hall,Scent-laden breezes sigh,Though linnets pipe their tuneful song,And cushat-doves reply.The menials walk with noiseless treadAcross the French-tiled floor;And, on its glittering hingesSwings back the oaken door."Oh doctor!" quoth the Lady GreyWith outstretched jeweled hand,"I am in depths of sore distressBut—you will understand.It comforts me, that to my wishThe answer came so quick;See!" and she drew the screen aside;—"My favorite cat is sick."Well was it that the patient layWithin a darkened room;The sunlight on the doctor's faceHad sunk in sudden gloom.'Twas but a moment; skilled, acuteAnd witty too, withal,With sober and respectful mienHe kept his thoughts in thrall.What were those thoughts? upon that couchBy rarest art compiled,Lay soulless brute, while o'er the wildsStrayed many a starving child.But wealth oft nurseth foiblesTo fill its empty day;And workers cater for its willWho hope for handsome pay.With solemn guise he lent his earFor quite a lengthened space;Then, with a grave obsequiousness,He diagnosed the case."His stomach is, for sure, deranged;No appetite hath he;Yet time and care effect a change,Wilt thou trust him with me?"A maiden, on a cushion soft,The precious tabby boreTo the escutcheoned carriage whichSoon halted as before.And the doctor raised his patientAnd stroked his shiny pate,Then—in the pantry, 'neath a tub,Consigned him to his fate.Withhold thy censure! rude this courseYet savoring keen insight;Four days of prison treatment broughtLuxurious Tabby right.Mote all the victims of excessBe held in durance vileA wholesome world would bloom apace,And peace and plenty smile.The proverb reads "'Tis an ill windThat bloweth no one good"And in the sequel of this taleBe that fact understood.For the fancies of a weaklingAnd over-pampered mindWere ladders by which highest aimCould fairer prospect find.Back came dear Tabby to the HallWith appetite restored;Glad to devour the meanest crumbHe hitherto ignored,To Lady Cecil's wonderment.With generous courtesyShe poured from out her silken purseThe shining golden fee,She placed it in the doctor's hand."Five hundred pounds a yearAs my physician you may claim;"—She praised him far and near.He gained the best of patronageThrough all the country side;He wooed a baron's daughter fair,And won her for his bride.No more chagrin, nor vexed delays;No plodding up the hill;Life's current flowed as peaceful streamWhich works the well-set mill.The noble Countess and her catHave long since passed away;But the witty doctor lives and thrivesIn green old age this day.
Itwas a dazzling equipageThat drove up to the door;It was a note with lordly crestThe liveried footman bore.A note for Doctor HarringtonFrom Lady Cecil Grey;It told of sickness at the HallAnd begged for no delay.
The young physician ponderedIf luck his path had found;Meanwhile the highly-mettled steedsImpatient paw the ground."'Tis passing strange her ladyshipThough odd, should summon me;"—High hung the omen of success,Bright gleamed the golden fee.
Two miles along the country road,Two miles of avenueAnd, 'yond the lily-bordered lake,Fair turrets rise to view.Oh! common ills of base-born lifeHow could ye venture near?Why should your breath, Oh foul disease!Pollute such atmosphere?Deep sadness broodeth o'er the Hall,Scent-laden breezes sigh,Though linnets pipe their tuneful song,And cushat-doves reply.The menials walk with noiseless treadAcross the French-tiled floor;And, on its glittering hingesSwings back the oaken door.
"Oh doctor!" quoth the Lady GreyWith outstretched jeweled hand,"I am in depths of sore distressBut—you will understand.It comforts me, that to my wishThe answer came so quick;See!" and she drew the screen aside;—"My favorite cat is sick."
Well was it that the patient layWithin a darkened room;The sunlight on the doctor's faceHad sunk in sudden gloom.'Twas but a moment; skilled, acuteAnd witty too, withal,With sober and respectful mienHe kept his thoughts in thrall.
What were those thoughts? upon that couchBy rarest art compiled,Lay soulless brute, while o'er the wildsStrayed many a starving child.But wealth oft nurseth foiblesTo fill its empty day;And workers cater for its willWho hope for handsome pay.
With solemn guise he lent his earFor quite a lengthened space;Then, with a grave obsequiousness,He diagnosed the case."His stomach is, for sure, deranged;No appetite hath he;Yet time and care effect a change,Wilt thou trust him with me?"
A maiden, on a cushion soft,The precious tabby boreTo the escutcheoned carriage whichSoon halted as before.And the doctor raised his patientAnd stroked his shiny pate,Then—in the pantry, 'neath a tub,Consigned him to his fate.
Withhold thy censure! rude this courseYet savoring keen insight;Four days of prison treatment broughtLuxurious Tabby right.Mote all the victims of excessBe held in durance vileA wholesome world would bloom apace,And peace and plenty smile.
The proverb reads "'Tis an ill windThat bloweth no one good"And in the sequel of this taleBe that fact understood.For the fancies of a weaklingAnd over-pampered mindWere ladders by which highest aimCould fairer prospect find.
Back came dear Tabby to the HallWith appetite restored;Glad to devour the meanest crumbHe hitherto ignored,To Lady Cecil's wonderment.With generous courtesyShe poured from out her silken purseThe shining golden fee,
She placed it in the doctor's hand."Five hundred pounds a yearAs my physician you may claim;"—She praised him far and near.He gained the best of patronageThrough all the country side;He wooed a baron's daughter fair,And won her for his bride.
No more chagrin, nor vexed delays;No plodding up the hill;Life's current flowed as peaceful streamWhich works the well-set mill.The noble Countess and her catHave long since passed away;But the witty doctor lives and thrivesIn green old age this day.
[Decoration]
I dreamtthat I culled the wild flowers on the moorland,And roamed o'er the hills which my forefathers trod,Ere their life-blood empurpled the fields of Hispania;Ere their souls soared on high to the patriot's God.I saw, to the call of the pibroch, advancingO'er mountain, o'er river, o'er blossoming plain,The strength of strong manhood, the youthful in daring;The thousands who went, but who came not again.The many moons passed as a breath, in bright dreamland,I looked from lone valley to sea-beaten shore;Two frigates,[Note]full-manned with a nation's defenders,Britannia's proud ensign defiantly bore.Then up from the shadows came voices long silenced;"Oh Britain! thou boast of the free and the brave;We fought, and we died for thy honor, thy freedom,Thou yieldest our offspring no boon but the grave."Dark visions rolled off with the mists of the morning;High o'er the green larches white smoke-wreaths had curled;And the tender sun beaming from out the clear ether,Was the hopefuller sun of an opening world.And over wide ocean a warbler came winging,Who sang, as he dropped a heathbell by our door,"The shadows are flitting, the day-dawn is breaking,The long night of sorrow will darken no more."
I dreamtthat I culled the wild flowers on the moorland,And roamed o'er the hills which my forefathers trod,Ere their life-blood empurpled the fields of Hispania;Ere their souls soared on high to the patriot's God.I saw, to the call of the pibroch, advancingO'er mountain, o'er river, o'er blossoming plain,The strength of strong manhood, the youthful in daring;The thousands who went, but who came not again.The many moons passed as a breath, in bright dreamland,I looked from lone valley to sea-beaten shore;Two frigates,[Note]full-manned with a nation's defenders,Britannia's proud ensign defiantly bore.Then up from the shadows came voices long silenced;"Oh Britain! thou boast of the free and the brave;We fought, and we died for thy honor, thy freedom,Thou yieldest our offspring no boon but the grave."Dark visions rolled off with the mists of the morning;High o'er the green larches white smoke-wreaths had curled;And the tender sun beaming from out the clear ether,Was the hopefuller sun of an opening world.And over wide ocean a warbler came winging,Who sang, as he dropped a heathbell by our door,"The shadows are flitting, the day-dawn is breaking,The long night of sorrow will darken no more."
I dreamtthat I culled the wild flowers on the moorland,And roamed o'er the hills which my forefathers trod,Ere their life-blood empurpled the fields of Hispania;Ere their souls soared on high to the patriot's God.I saw, to the call of the pibroch, advancingO'er mountain, o'er river, o'er blossoming plain,The strength of strong manhood, the youthful in daring;The thousands who went, but who came not again.
The many moons passed as a breath, in bright dreamland,I looked from lone valley to sea-beaten shore;Two frigates,[Note]full-manned with a nation's defenders,Britannia's proud ensign defiantly bore.Then up from the shadows came voices long silenced;"Oh Britain! thou boast of the free and the brave;We fought, and we died for thy honor, thy freedom,Thou yieldest our offspring no boon but the grave."
Dark visions rolled off with the mists of the morning;High o'er the green larches white smoke-wreaths had curled;And the tender sun beaming from out the clear ether,Was the hopefuller sun of an opening world.And over wide ocean a warbler came winging,Who sang, as he dropped a heathbell by our door,"The shadows are flitting, the day-dawn is breaking,The long night of sorrow will darken no more."
Loch Katrine'sbonnie banks an' braes,Though lang I've left them a', laddie,'Thochts o' them, an' ither daysMaist break my heart in twa, laddie.Fu' thretty years o' storm an' shineSin' first we crossed the ocean's brine,Yet closely roond oor hearts entwineThe mem'ries o' lang syne, laddie.Oh! mind ye o' the leafy bowersWithin the sylvan shade, laddie,Where aft we pu'd the wild-wood flowers,As warblers stirred the glade, laddie?Wi' step sae buoyant, firm an' freeI hurried tae the trystin' tree;—Sae sacred then tae Love an' thee;To love, an' thee, an' me, laddie.In school, at sport, in whirlin' dance,Thy rival was nae seen, laddie,Nae ither suitor won a glanceFrae me, the village queen, laddie.Then ebon was my glossy hair,Thy crown o' curls was gowden fair;Now time—wha rich nor puir will spare—Has bleached oor locks to sna, laddie.Nae mair upon auld Scotia's shoreWi' willing feet we'll stray, laddie,Nor greet the freens we loved o' yore,The yore sae far away, laddie.Nae mair we'll see the sunbeams restUpon Ben Ledi's haughty crest,As, reddening a' the distant west,Sol sinks aneath the wave, laddie.Nae mair we'll watch the rushin' tideSweep ower the yellow sands, laddie,But far ayont the ither sideWe'll clasp the lang missed hands, laddie.Yes! far ayont the mist an' rain,An' days of toil, an' nichts o' pain,Wide scattered flocks will meet againNae mair to part for aye, laddie.As frost dispels 'fore kindly thawWhen Spring's saft breezes blow, laddie,So gently may we slip awa'To joys nae mortals know, laddie.For as the sun clears aff the dew,Our withered lives will bloom anew,When this fause world shall fade frae viewIn fairer worlds abune, laddie.
Loch Katrine'sbonnie banks an' braes,Though lang I've left them a', laddie,'Thochts o' them, an' ither daysMaist break my heart in twa, laddie.Fu' thretty years o' storm an' shineSin' first we crossed the ocean's brine,Yet closely roond oor hearts entwineThe mem'ries o' lang syne, laddie.Oh! mind ye o' the leafy bowersWithin the sylvan shade, laddie,Where aft we pu'd the wild-wood flowers,As warblers stirred the glade, laddie?Wi' step sae buoyant, firm an' freeI hurried tae the trystin' tree;—Sae sacred then tae Love an' thee;To love, an' thee, an' me, laddie.In school, at sport, in whirlin' dance,Thy rival was nae seen, laddie,Nae ither suitor won a glanceFrae me, the village queen, laddie.Then ebon was my glossy hair,Thy crown o' curls was gowden fair;Now time—wha rich nor puir will spare—Has bleached oor locks to sna, laddie.Nae mair upon auld Scotia's shoreWi' willing feet we'll stray, laddie,Nor greet the freens we loved o' yore,The yore sae far away, laddie.Nae mair we'll see the sunbeams restUpon Ben Ledi's haughty crest,As, reddening a' the distant west,Sol sinks aneath the wave, laddie.Nae mair we'll watch the rushin' tideSweep ower the yellow sands, laddie,But far ayont the ither sideWe'll clasp the lang missed hands, laddie.Yes! far ayont the mist an' rain,An' days of toil, an' nichts o' pain,Wide scattered flocks will meet againNae mair to part for aye, laddie.As frost dispels 'fore kindly thawWhen Spring's saft breezes blow, laddie,So gently may we slip awa'To joys nae mortals know, laddie.For as the sun clears aff the dew,Our withered lives will bloom anew,When this fause world shall fade frae viewIn fairer worlds abune, laddie.
Loch Katrine'sbonnie banks an' braes,Though lang I've left them a', laddie,'Thochts o' them, an' ither daysMaist break my heart in twa, laddie.Fu' thretty years o' storm an' shineSin' first we crossed the ocean's brine,Yet closely roond oor hearts entwineThe mem'ries o' lang syne, laddie.
Oh! mind ye o' the leafy bowersWithin the sylvan shade, laddie,Where aft we pu'd the wild-wood flowers,As warblers stirred the glade, laddie?Wi' step sae buoyant, firm an' freeI hurried tae the trystin' tree;—Sae sacred then tae Love an' thee;To love, an' thee, an' me, laddie.
In school, at sport, in whirlin' dance,Thy rival was nae seen, laddie,Nae ither suitor won a glanceFrae me, the village queen, laddie.Then ebon was my glossy hair,Thy crown o' curls was gowden fair;Now time—wha rich nor puir will spare—Has bleached oor locks to sna, laddie.
Nae mair upon auld Scotia's shoreWi' willing feet we'll stray, laddie,Nor greet the freens we loved o' yore,The yore sae far away, laddie.Nae mair we'll see the sunbeams restUpon Ben Ledi's haughty crest,As, reddening a' the distant west,Sol sinks aneath the wave, laddie.
Nae mair we'll watch the rushin' tideSweep ower the yellow sands, laddie,But far ayont the ither sideWe'll clasp the lang missed hands, laddie.Yes! far ayont the mist an' rain,An' days of toil, an' nichts o' pain,Wide scattered flocks will meet againNae mair to part for aye, laddie.
As frost dispels 'fore kindly thawWhen Spring's saft breezes blow, laddie,So gently may we slip awa'To joys nae mortals know, laddie.For as the sun clears aff the dew,Our withered lives will bloom anew,When this fause world shall fade frae viewIn fairer worlds abune, laddie.
[Decoration]
Insplendour of an Eastern night,Where Luna softly smiles,I've sailed along the shimmering tideWhich laves the Classic Isles.Or led the dance in courtly hall,'Mid gayest of the throng;Or listed to rareartistespourTheir witchery of song.And 'yond the murky Tiber's waveHave strolled 'neath Pincian shade;As sunlight streamed o'er Saxon fair,Or dark-eyed Roman maid.In dreamland oft our Highland hillsForth from the shadows spring,All radiant in their purple bloom;Meet haunts of forest king.And up the green-arched avenue,And o'er the daisied lawnTroop faces bright, and hearts as lightAs step of mountain fawn.And artless voices drown in mirthThe sighing of the breeze;—But memory opes, the vision fades;Wail nottheirfate; Oh Seas!Though former scenes in Time's rough blastHave drifted far away;And halls wherein our fathers ruledLie mouldering in decay,Though ne'er again, o'er heathery wild,I'll see the storm-clouds fly;Or watch the golden glory creepO'er lake, and mount and sky.Though never more, from castle towerI'll scan the pebbly shore;Or hark the lovèd brother's laysChime with the plashing oar.Yet, where no floweret ever fades,Nor weeping wakes the morn;Where every heart, with sorrow fraught,To joy shall be re-born.Within the great orchestral bandGlad anthems we'll prolong;Nor sickness shall discord our praise,Nor death disturb our song.Nor ocean wide shall e'er divide,Nor years nor space will sever;In realm of health's immortal bloomWe'll live in love for ever.What though my hope-fraught argosyNe'er reached a halcyon strand;Though winds and waves have rudely tossed;I know the Pilot's handWill steer me safe 'yond shifting-sands,Dense fogs and chilling rime,To anchorage within that haven,Beyond the ridge of time.Where crowns of pearl, and harps of goldIn holy radiance beam;Where halos from the great White ThroneDispel earth's fitful dream.
Insplendour of an Eastern night,Where Luna softly smiles,I've sailed along the shimmering tideWhich laves the Classic Isles.Or led the dance in courtly hall,'Mid gayest of the throng;Or listed to rareartistespourTheir witchery of song.And 'yond the murky Tiber's waveHave strolled 'neath Pincian shade;As sunlight streamed o'er Saxon fair,Or dark-eyed Roman maid.In dreamland oft our Highland hillsForth from the shadows spring,All radiant in their purple bloom;Meet haunts of forest king.And up the green-arched avenue,And o'er the daisied lawnTroop faces bright, and hearts as lightAs step of mountain fawn.And artless voices drown in mirthThe sighing of the breeze;—But memory opes, the vision fades;Wail nottheirfate; Oh Seas!Though former scenes in Time's rough blastHave drifted far away;And halls wherein our fathers ruledLie mouldering in decay,Though ne'er again, o'er heathery wild,I'll see the storm-clouds fly;Or watch the golden glory creepO'er lake, and mount and sky.Though never more, from castle towerI'll scan the pebbly shore;Or hark the lovèd brother's laysChime with the plashing oar.Yet, where no floweret ever fades,Nor weeping wakes the morn;Where every heart, with sorrow fraught,To joy shall be re-born.Within the great orchestral bandGlad anthems we'll prolong;Nor sickness shall discord our praise,Nor death disturb our song.Nor ocean wide shall e'er divide,Nor years nor space will sever;In realm of health's immortal bloomWe'll live in love for ever.What though my hope-fraught argosyNe'er reached a halcyon strand;Though winds and waves have rudely tossed;I know the Pilot's handWill steer me safe 'yond shifting-sands,Dense fogs and chilling rime,To anchorage within that haven,Beyond the ridge of time.Where crowns of pearl, and harps of goldIn holy radiance beam;Where halos from the great White ThroneDispel earth's fitful dream.
Insplendour of an Eastern night,Where Luna softly smiles,I've sailed along the shimmering tideWhich laves the Classic Isles.Or led the dance in courtly hall,'Mid gayest of the throng;Or listed to rareartistespourTheir witchery of song.And 'yond the murky Tiber's waveHave strolled 'neath Pincian shade;As sunlight streamed o'er Saxon fair,Or dark-eyed Roman maid.
In dreamland oft our Highland hillsForth from the shadows spring,All radiant in their purple bloom;Meet haunts of forest king.And up the green-arched avenue,And o'er the daisied lawnTroop faces bright, and hearts as lightAs step of mountain fawn.And artless voices drown in mirthThe sighing of the breeze;—But memory opes, the vision fades;Wail nottheirfate; Oh Seas!
Though former scenes in Time's rough blastHave drifted far away;And halls wherein our fathers ruledLie mouldering in decay,Though ne'er again, o'er heathery wild,I'll see the storm-clouds fly;Or watch the golden glory creepO'er lake, and mount and sky.Though never more, from castle towerI'll scan the pebbly shore;Or hark the lovèd brother's laysChime with the plashing oar.
Yet, where no floweret ever fades,Nor weeping wakes the morn;Where every heart, with sorrow fraught,To joy shall be re-born.Within the great orchestral bandGlad anthems we'll prolong;Nor sickness shall discord our praise,Nor death disturb our song.Nor ocean wide shall e'er divide,Nor years nor space will sever;In realm of health's immortal bloomWe'll live in love for ever.
What though my hope-fraught argosyNe'er reached a halcyon strand;Though winds and waves have rudely tossed;I know the Pilot's handWill steer me safe 'yond shifting-sands,Dense fogs and chilling rime,To anchorage within that haven,Beyond the ridge of time.Where crowns of pearl, and harps of goldIn holy radiance beam;Where halos from the great White ThroneDispel earth's fitful dream.
[Scottish Badge - NEMO ME IMPUNE LACESSET]
MISCELLANEOUS.