"The grass is trodden by the feetOf thousands, from a thousand lands—The prince, the peasant, tottering age,And rosy schoolboy bands;All crowd to fairy Abbotsford,And lingering gaze, and gaze the more;Hang o'er the chair in whichhesat,The latest dresshewore."[73]
"The grass is trodden by the feetOf thousands, from a thousand lands—The prince, the peasant, tottering age,And rosy schoolboy bands;All crowd to fairy Abbotsford,And lingering gaze, and gaze the more;Hang o'er the chair in whichhesat,The latest dresshewore."[73]
It was an English ladye bright(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),And she would marry a Scottish knight,For Love will still be lord of all.Blithely they saw the rising sun,When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;But they were sad ere day was done,Though Love was still the lord of all.The sire gave brooch and jewel fine,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;Her brother gave but a flask of wine,For ire that Love was lord of all.For she had lands, both meadow and lea,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,And he swore her death, ere he would seeA Scottish knight the lord of all.That wine she had not tasted well(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),When dead in her true love's arms she fell,For Love was still the lord of all.He pierced her brother to the heart,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall—So perish all would true love part,That Love may still be lord of all!And then he took the cross divine(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),And died for her sake in Palestine,So Love was still the lord of all.Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)Pray for their souls who died for love,For Love shall still be lord of all!
It was an English ladye bright(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),And she would marry a Scottish knight,For Love will still be lord of all.
Blithely they saw the rising sun,When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;But they were sad ere day was done,Though Love was still the lord of all.
The sire gave brooch and jewel fine,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;Her brother gave but a flask of wine,For ire that Love was lord of all.
For she had lands, both meadow and lea,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,And he swore her death, ere he would seeA Scottish knight the lord of all.
That wine she had not tasted well(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),When dead in her true love's arms she fell,For Love was still the lord of all.
He pierced her brother to the heart,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall—So perish all would true love part,That Love may still be lord of all!
And then he took the cross divine(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall),And died for her sake in Palestine,So Love was still the lord of all.
Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)Pray for their souls who died for love,For Love shall still be lord of all!
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?""I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far,To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,Through all the wide border his steed was the best;And save his good broadsword he weapons had none,He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.
He stay'd not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,The bride had consented, the gallant came late:For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.
So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word)"Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?"
"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;—Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine;There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar."
The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up,He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup;She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar—"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.
So stately his form, and so lovely her face,That never a hall such a galliard did grace;While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;And the bride-maidens whisper'd, "'Twere better, by far,To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."
One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,So light to the saddle before her he sprung!"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;They 'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.
There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:There was racing, and chasing, on Cannobie Lea,But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?
Where shall the lover rest,Whom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breast,Parted for ever?Where, through groves deep and high,Sounds the far billow;Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loro, &c.Soft shall be his pillow.There, through the summer day,Cool streams are laving;There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There, thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever;Never again to wake,Never, O never!Eleu loro, &c.Never, O never!Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden's breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingle war's rattleWith groans of the dying.Eleu loro, &c.There shall he be lying.Her wing shall the eagle flapO'er the false-hearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lapEre life be parted.Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow it,—Never, O never!Eleu loro, &c.Never, O never!
Where shall the lover rest,Whom the fates severFrom his true maiden's breast,Parted for ever?Where, through groves deep and high,Sounds the far billow;Where early violets dieUnder the willow.Eleu loro, &c.Soft shall be his pillow.
There, through the summer day,Cool streams are laving;There, while the tempests sway,Scarce are boughs waving;There, thy rest shalt thou take,Parted for ever;Never again to wake,Never, O never!Eleu loro, &c.Never, O never!
Where shall the traitor rest,He, the deceiver,Who could win maiden's breast,Ruin, and leave her?In the lost battle,Borne down by the flying,Where mingle war's rattleWith groans of the dying.Eleu loro, &c.There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flapO'er the false-hearted;His warm blood the wolf shall lapEre life be parted.Shame and dishonour sitBy his grave ever;Blessing shall hallow it,—Never, O never!Eleu loro, &c.Never, O never!
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battle-fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;Trump nor pibroch summon here,Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow;And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor wardens challenge here;Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé.Sleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,How thy gallant steed lay dying.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail ye,Here no bugles sound reveillé.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;Dream of battle-fields no more,Days of danger, nights of waking.In our isle's enchanted hall,Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,Fairy strains of music fall,Every sense in slumber dewing.Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,Dream of fighting fields no more;Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,Armour's clang, or war-steed champing;Trump nor pibroch summon here,Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.Yet the lark's shrill fife may comeAt the daybreak from the fallow;And the bittern sound his drum,Booming from the sedgy shallow.Ruder sounds shall none be near,Guards nor wardens challenge here;Here 's no war-steed's neigh and champing,Shouting clans, or squadrons' stamping.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done;While our slumbrous spells assail ye,Dream not, with the rising sun,Bugles here shall sound reveillé.Sleep! the deer is in his den;Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,How thy gallant steed lay dying.Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,Think not of the rising sun,For at dawning to assail ye,Here no bugles sound reveillé.
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;Moor'd in the rifted rockProof to the tempest shock,Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane, then,Echo his praise agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.Widow and Saxon maidLong shall lament our raid,Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-GlenShake when they hear agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islandsWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!O that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from the deepmost glen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!Heaven send it happy dew,Earth lend it sap anew,Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,While every Highland glenSends our shout back agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade;Moor'd in the rifted rockProof to the tempest shock,Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;Menteith and Breadalbane, then,Echo his praise agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin,And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.Widow and Saxon maidLong shall lament our raid,Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;Lennox and Leven-GlenShake when they hear agen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islandsWere wreathed in a garland around him to twine!O that some seedling gem,Worthy such noble stem,Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!Loud should Clan-Alpine thenRing from the deepmost glen,Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!
The heath this night must be my bed,The bracken curtains for my head,My lullaby the warder's tread,Far, far from love and thee, Mary.To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,My couch may be the bloody plaid,My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!It will not waken me, Mary!I may not, dare not, fancy nowThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow,I dare not think upon thy vow,And all it promised me, Mary.No fond regret must Norman know;When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,His heart must be like bended bow,His foot like arrow free, Mary.A time will come with feeling fraught,For if I fall in battle fought,Thy hapless lover's dying thoughtShall be a thought on thee, Mary.And if return'd from conquer'd foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing reposeTo my young bride and me, Mary!
The heath this night must be my bed,The bracken curtains for my head,My lullaby the warder's tread,Far, far from love and thee, Mary.
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,My couch may be the bloody plaid,My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!It will not waken me, Mary!
I may not, dare not, fancy nowThe grief that clouds thy lovely brow,I dare not think upon thy vow,And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe,His heart must be like bended bow,His foot like arrow free, Mary.
A time will come with feeling fraught,For if I fall in battle fought,Thy hapless lover's dying thoughtShall be a thought on thee, Mary.
And if return'd from conquer'd foes,How blithely will the evening close,How sweet the linnet sing reposeTo my young bride and me, Mary!
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 forest green,With bended bow and bloodhound free,For that 's the life is meet for me.I hate to learn the ebb of timeFrom yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,Inch after inch, along the wall.The lark was wont my matins 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 riseAnd sun myself in Ellen's eyes,Drive the fleet deer the forest through,And homeward wend with evening dew;A blithesome welcome blithely meetAnd lay my trophies at her feet,While fled the eve on wing of glee—That life is lost to love and me!
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 forest green,With bended bow and bloodhound free,For that 's the life is meet for me.
I hate to learn the ebb of timeFrom yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl,Inch after inch, along the wall.The lark was wont my matins 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 riseAnd sun myself in Ellen's eyes,Drive the fleet deer the forest through,And homeward wend with evening dew;A blithesome welcome blithely meetAnd 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,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 reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWafts the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.Fleet foot on the corrie,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.
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 reaperTakes the ears that are hoary,But the voice of the weeperWails manhood in glory.The autumn winds rushingWafts the leaves that are searest,But our flower was in flushingWhen blighting was nearest.
Fleet foot on the corrie,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.
"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 ye knew, my love!No more of me ye knew."This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she 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."
"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 ye knew, my love!No more of me ye knew.
"This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she 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."
Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,The mere for his net, and the land for his game,The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the valeAre less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;The mother she asked of his household and home;"Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.The father was steel and the mother was stone,They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale has no faggot for burning,Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning;Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.
The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,And he views his domains upon Arkindale side,The mere for his net, and the land for his game,The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the valeAre less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright;Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word;And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.
Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come;The mother she asked of his household and home;"Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill,My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still;'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale,And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.
The father was steel and the mother was stone,They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone;But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry,He had laugh'd on the lass with his bonny black eye,And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale,And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.
Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!Too lively glow the lilies' light,The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,The mayflower and the eglantineMay shade a brow less sad than mine;But, lady, weave no wreath for me,Or weave it of the cypress-tree!Let dimpled mirth his temples twineWith tendrils of the laughing vine;The manly oak, the pensive yew,To patriot and to sage be due;The myrtle bough bids lovers liveBut that Matilda will not give;Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!Let merry England proudly rearHer blended roses, bought so dear;Let Albin bind her bonnet blueWith heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.On favour'd Erin's crest be seenThe flower she loves of emerald green;But, lady, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!Strike the wild harp while maids prepareThe ivy meet for minstrel's hair;And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,With bloody hand the victor weaves,Let the loud trump his triumph tell;But when you hear the passing-bell,Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,And twine it of the cypress-tree!Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;But, O Matilda, twine not now!Stay till a few brief months are pastAnd I have look'd and loved my last!When villagers my shroud bestrewWith pansies, rosemary, and rue,—Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,And weave it of the cypress-tree!
Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!Too lively glow the lilies' light,The varnish'd holly 's all too bright,The mayflower and the eglantineMay shade a brow less sad than mine;But, lady, weave no wreath for me,Or weave it of the cypress-tree!
Let dimpled mirth his temples twineWith tendrils of the laughing vine;The manly oak, the pensive yew,To patriot and to sage be due;The myrtle bough bids lovers liveBut that Matilda will not give;Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Let merry England proudly rearHer blended roses, bought so dear;Let Albin bind her bonnet blueWith heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.On favour'd Erin's crest be seenThe flower she loves of emerald green;But, lady, twine no wreath for me,Or twine it of the cypress-tree!
Strike the wild harp while maids prepareThe ivy meet for minstrel's hair;And, while his crown of laurel-leaves,With bloody hand the victor weaves,Let the loud trump his triumph tell;But when you hear the passing-bell,Then, lady, twine a wreath for me,And twine it of the cypress-tree!
Yes, twine for me the cypress bough;But, O Matilda, twine not now!Stay till a few brief months are pastAnd I have look'd and loved my last!When villagers my shroud bestrewWith pansies, rosemary, and rue,—Then, lady, weave a wreath for me,And weave it of the cypress-tree!
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed and away,Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,Her king is his leader, her church is his cause,His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the barons of England that fight for the crown?Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier,Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!
While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,My true love has mounted his steed and away,Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear,He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair,From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down—Heaven shield the brave gallant that fights for the crown!
For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws,Her king is his leader, her church is his cause,His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,—God strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!
They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and allThe roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall;But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town,That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.
There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes;There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and Brown,With the barons of England that fight for the crown?
Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier,Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day,All the jolly chase is here,With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily, mingle they—"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the green-wood haste away;We can shew you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can shew the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."Louder, louder chant the lay,Waken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,Run a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay.
Waken, lords and ladies gay,On the mountain dawns the day,All the jolly chase is here,With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!Hounds are in their couples yelling,Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,Merrily, merrily, mingle they—"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,The mist has left the mountain gray,Springlets in the dawn are steaming,Diamonds on the brake are gleaming:And foresters have busy beenTo track the buck in thicket green;Now we come to chant our lay,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,To the green-wood haste away;We can shew you where he lies,Fleet of foot and tall of size;We can shew the marks he madeWhen 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;You shall see him brought to bay,"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder chant the lay,Waken, lords and ladies gay!Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,Run a course as well as we;Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk,Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?Think of this, and rise with day,Gentle lords and ladies gay.
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,That your spring-time of pleasure is flown;Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,For those raptures that still are thine own.Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,Its tendrils in infancy curl'd;'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,Whose life-blood enlivens the world.Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,Has assumed a proportion more round,And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,Looks soberly now on the ground—Enough, after absence to meet me again,Thy steps still with ecstacy move;Enough, that those dear sober glances retainFor me the kind language of love.
Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air,That your spring-time of pleasure is flown;Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,For those raptures that still are thine own.
Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine,Its tendrils in infancy curl'd;'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,Whose life-blood enlivens the world.
Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,Has assumed a proportion more round,And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,Looks soberly now on the ground—
Enough, after absence to meet me again,Thy steps still with ecstacy move;Enough, that those dear sober glances retainFor me the kind language of love.
Robert Mackay, calledDonn, from the colour of his hair, which was brown or chestnut, was born in the Strathmore of Sutherlandshire, about the year 1714.
His calling, with the interval of a brief military service in the fencibles, was the tending of cattle, in the several gradations of herd, drover, and bo-man, or responsible cow-keeper—the last, in his pastoral county, a charge of trust and respectability. At one period he had an appointment in Lord Reay's forest; but some deviations into the "righteous theft"—so the Highlanders of those parts, it seems, call the appropriation of an occasional deer to their own use—forfeited his noble employer's confidence. Rob, however, does not appear to have suffered in his general character or reputation for anunconsidered triflelike this, nor otherwise to have declined in the favour of his chief, beyond the necessity of transporting himself to a situation somewhat nearer the verge of Cape Wrath than the bosom of the deer preserve.
Mackay was happily married, and brought up a large family in habits and sentiments of piety; a fact whichhis reverend biographer connects very touchingly with the stated solemnities of the "Saturday night," when the lighter chants of the week were exchanged at the worthy drover's fireside for the purer and holier melodies of another inspiration.[87]As a pendant to this creditable account of the bard's principles, we are informed that he was a frequent guest at the presbytery dinner-table; a circumstance which some may be so malicious as to surmise amounted to nothing more than a purpose to enhance the festive recreations of the reverend body—a suspicion, we believe, in this particular instance, totally unfounded. He died in 1778; and he has succeeded to some rather peculiar honours for a person in his position, or even of his mark. He has had a reverend doctor for his editorial biographer,[88]and no less than Sir Walter Scott for his reviewer.[89]
The passages which Sir Walter has culled from some literal translations that were submitted to him, are certainly the most favourable specimens of the bard that we have been able to discover in his volume. The rest are generally either satiric rants too rough or too local for transfusion, or panegyrics on the living and the dead, in the usual extravagant style of such compositions, according to the taste of the Highlanders and the usage of their bards; or they are love-lays, of which the language is more copious and diversified than the sentiment. In the gleanings on which we have ventured, after the illustrious person who has done so much honour to the bard by his comments and selections, we have attempted to draw out a little more of the peculiar character of the poet's genius.
This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative harmony in the original song is extraordinary.
This is selected as a specimen of Mackay's descriptive poetry. It is in a style peculiar to the Highlands, where description runs so entirely into epithets and adjectives, as to render recitation breathless, and translation hopeless. Here, while we have retained the imagery, we have been unable to find room, or rather rhyme, for one half of the epithets in the original. The power of alliterative harmony in the original song is extraordinary.
At waking so earlyWas snow on the Ben,And, the glen of the hill in,The storm-drift so chillingThe linnet was stilling,That couch'd in its den;And poor robin was shrillingIn sorrow his strain.
At waking so earlyWas snow on the Ben,And, the glen of the hill in,The storm-drift so chillingThe linnet was stilling,That couch'd in its den;And poor robin was shrillingIn sorrow his strain.
Every grove was expectingIts leaf shed in gloom;The sap it is draining,Down rootwards 'tis straining,And the bark it is waningAs dry as the tomb,And the blackbird at morningIs shrieking his doom.
Every grove was expectingIts leaf shed in gloom;The sap it is draining,Down rootwards 'tis straining,And the bark it is waningAs dry as the tomb,And the blackbird at morningIs shrieking his doom.
Ceases thriving, the knotted,The stunted birk-shaw;[90]While the rough wind is blowing,And the drift of the snowingIs shaking, o'erthrowing,The copse on the law.
Ceases thriving, the knotted,The stunted birk-shaw;[90]While the rough wind is blowing,And the drift of the snowingIs shaking, o'erthrowing,The copse on the law.
'Tis the season when natureIs all in the sere,When her snow-showers are hailing,Her rain-sleet assailing,Her mountain winds wailing,Her rime-frosts severe.
'Tis the season when natureIs all in the sere,When her snow-showers are hailing,Her rain-sleet assailing,Her mountain winds wailing,Her rime-frosts severe.
'Tis the season of leanness,Unkindness, and chill;Its whistle is ringing,An iciness bringing,Where the brown leaves are clingingIn helplessness, still,And the snow-rush is delvingWith furrows the hill.
'Tis the season of leanness,Unkindness, and chill;Its whistle is ringing,An iciness bringing,Where the brown leaves are clingingIn helplessness, still,And the snow-rush is delvingWith furrows the hill.
The sun is in hiding,Or frozen its beamOn the peaks where he lingers,On the glens, where the singers,[91]With their bills and small fingersAre raking the stream,Or picking the midsteadFor forage—and scream.
The sun is in hiding,Or frozen its beamOn the peaks where he lingers,On the glens, where the singers,[91]With their bills and small fingersAre raking the stream,Or picking the midsteadFor forage—and scream.
When darkens the gloamingOh, scant is their cheer!All benumb'd is their song inThe hedge they are thronging,And for shelter still longing,The mortar[92]they tear;Ever noisily, noisilySquealing their care.
When darkens the gloamingOh, scant is their cheer!All benumb'd is their song inThe hedge they are thronging,And for shelter still longing,The mortar[92]they tear;Ever noisily, noisilySquealing their care.
The running stream's chieftain[93]Is trailing to land,So flabby, so grimy,So sickly, so slimy,—The spots of his prime heHas rusted with sand;Crook-snouted his crest isThat taper'd so grand.
The running stream's chieftain[93]Is trailing to land,So flabby, so grimy,So sickly, so slimy,—The spots of his prime heHas rusted with sand;Crook-snouted his crest isThat taper'd so grand.
How mournful in winterThe lowing of kine;How lean-back'd they shiver,How draggled their cover,How their nostrils run overWith drippings of brine,So scraggy and criningIn the cold frost they pine.
How mournful in winterThe lowing of kine;How lean-back'd they shiver,How draggled their cover,How their nostrils run overWith drippings of brine,So scraggy and criningIn the cold frost they pine.
'Tis hallow-mass time, andTo mildness farewell!Its bristles are low'ringWith darkness; o'erpoweringAre its waters, aye showeringWith onset so fell;Seem the kid and the yearlingAs rung their death-knell.
'Tis hallow-mass time, andTo mildness farewell!Its bristles are low'ringWith darkness; o'erpoweringAre its waters, aye showeringWith onset so fell;Seem the kid and the yearlingAs rung their death-knell.
Every out-lying creature,How sinew'd soe'er,Seeks the refuge of shelter;The race of the antlerThey snort and they falter,A-cold in their lair;And the fawns they are wastingSince their kin is afar.
Every out-lying creature,How sinew'd soe'er,Seeks the refuge of shelter;The race of the antlerThey snort and they falter,A-cold in their lair;And the fawns they are wastingSince their kin is afar.
Such the songs that are saddestAnd dreariest of all;I ever am eerieIn the morning to hear ye!When foddering, to cheer thePoor herd in the stall—While each creature is moaning,And sickening in thrall.
Such the songs that are saddestAnd dreariest of all;I ever am eerieIn the morning to hear ye!When foddering, to cheer thePoor herd in the stall—While each creature is moaning,And sickening in thrall.