Sir Walter Scott

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    Biographical information

  1. A Serenade
  2. Answer
  3. Bonny Dundee
  4. Border Ballad
  5. Brignall Banks
  6. Coronach
  7. County Guy
  8. Datur Hora Quieti
  9. Eleu Loro
  10. Gathering Song Of Donald The Black
  11. Harp Of The North, Farewell!
  12. Here Shall The Lover Rest
  13. Here’s A Health To King Charles
  14. Hunter's Song
  15. It Was An English Ladye Bright
  16. Jock Of Hazeldean
  17. Lochinvar
  18. Lucy Ashton's Song
  19. Lullaby Of An Infant Chief
  20. MacGregor's Gathering
  21. Marmion
  22. My Native Land
  23. On Leaving Mrs. Brown's Lodgings
  24. Patriotism I. Innominatus
  25. Patriotism II. Nelson, Pitt, Fox
  26. Pibroch Of Donail Dhu
  27. Rosabelle
  28. Sound, Sound The Clarion
  29. The Maid Of Neidpath
  30. The OutlawThe Rover's Adieu
  31. The Truth Of Woman
  32. To A Lock Of Hair




    Biographical information

      Name: Sir Walter Scott, 1st Baronet
      Place and date of birth: Edinburgh (Scotland); August 15, 1771
      Place and date of death: Melrose (Scotland); September 21, 1832 (aged 61)

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      A Serenade

        Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh
        The sun has left the lea,
        The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
        The breeze is on the sea.
        The lark, his lay who trill’d all day,
        Sits hush’d his partner nigh;
        Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
        But where is County Guy?

        The village maid steals through the shade
        Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
        To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
        Sings high-born Cavalier.
        The star of Love, all stars above,
        Now reigns o’er earth and sky,
        And high and low the influence know—
        But where is County Guy?

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      Answer

        Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
        To all the sensual world proclaim,
        One crowded hour of glorious life
        Is worth an age without a name.

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      Bonny Dundee

        To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke.
        ‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;
        So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me,
        Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
        Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;
        Come open the West Port and let me gang free,
        And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’

        Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,
        The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;
        But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be,
        The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,
        Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;
        But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,
        Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed,
        As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;
        There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e,
        As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,
        And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;
        But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free,
        At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,
        And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;
        ‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,
        For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.’
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        The Gordon demands of him which way he goes—
        ‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!
        Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
        Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        ‘There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,
        If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North;
        There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,
        Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        ‘There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;
        There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;
        The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,
        At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        ‘Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks—
        Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox;
        And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
        You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’
        Come fill up my cup, etc.

        He waved his proud hand, the trumpets were blown,
        The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on,
        Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee
        Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.
        Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
        Come saddle the horses, and call up the men,
        Come open your gates, and let me gae free,
        For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!

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      Border Ballad

          March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,
          Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!
          March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,
          All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
          Many a banner spread,
          Flutters above your head,
          Many a crest that is famous in story.
          Mount and make ready then,
          Sons of the mountain glen,
          Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

          Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing,
          Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
          Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing,
          Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
          Trumpets are sounding,
          War-steeds are bounding,
          Stand to your arms, then, and march in good order;
          England shall many a day
          Tell of the bloody fray,
          When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

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        Brignall Banks

          O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
          And Greta woods are green,
          And you may gather garlands there,
          Would grace a summer queen:
          And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
          Beneath the turrets high,
          A Maiden on the castle wall
          Was singing merrily:—

          'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
          And Greta woods are green!
          I'd rather rove with Edmund there
          Than reign our English Queen.'

          'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
          To leave both tower and town,
          Thou first must guess what life lead we,
          That dwell by dale and down:
          And if thou canst that riddle read,
          As read full well you may,
          Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
          As blithe as Queen of May.'

          Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
          And Greta woods are green!
          I'd rather rove with Edmund there
          Than reign our English Queen.

          'I read you by your bugle horn
          And by your palfrey good,
          I read you for a Ranger sworn
          To keep the King's green-wood.'
          'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
          And 'tis at peep of light;
          His blast is heard at merry morn,
          And mine at dead of night.'

          Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
          And Greta woods are gay!
          I would I were with Edmund there,
          To reign his Queen of May!

          'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
          So gallantly you come,
          I read you for a bold Dragoon,
          That lists the tuck of drum.'
          'I list no more the tuck of drum,
          No more the trumpet hear;
          But when the beetle sounds his hum,
          My comrades take the spear.

          'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
          And Greta woods be gay,
          Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
          Would reign my Queen of May!

          'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
          A nameless death I'll die;
          The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
          Were better mate than I!
          And when I'm with my comrades met
          Beneath the green-wood bough,
          What once we were we all forget,
          Nor think what we are now.'

          Chorus.
          Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
          And Greta woods are green,
          And you may gather flowers there
          Would grace a summer queen.

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        Coronach

          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, reappearing,
          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 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!

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        County Guy

          Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
          The sun has left the lea,
          The orange flower perfumes the bower,
          The breeze is on the sea.
          The lark his lay who thrill'd all day
          Sits hush'd his partner nigh:
          Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
          But where is County Guy?

          The village maid steals through the shade,
          Her shepherd's suit to hear;
          To beauty shy, by lattice high,
          Sings high-born Cavalier.
          The star of Love, all stars above
          Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
          And high and low the influence know--
          But where is County Guy?

        Up

        Datur Hora Quieti

          The sun upon the lake is low,
          The wild birds hush their song,
          The hills have evening's deepest glow,
          Yet Leonard tarries long.
          Now all whom varied toil and care
          From home and love divide,
          In the calm sunset may repair
          Each to the loved one's side.

          The noble dame, on turret high,
          Who waits her gallant knight,
          Looks to the western beam to spy
          The flash of armour bright.
          The village maid, with hand on brow
          The level ray to shade,
          Upon the footpath watches now
          For Colin's darkening plaid.

          Now to their mates the wild swans row,
          By day they swam apart,
          And to the thicket wanders slow
          The hind beside the hart.
          The woodlark at his partner's side
          Twitters his closing song -
          All meet whom day and care divide,
          But Leonard tarries long!

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        Eleu Loro

          Where shall the lover rest
          Whom the fates sever
          From his true maiden’s breast
          Parted for ever?
          Where, through groves deep and high
          Sounds the far billow,
          Where early violets die
          Under the willow.
          Eleu loro
          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
          Never, O never!

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        Gathering Song Of Donald The Black

          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
          Pibroch of Donuil
          Wake thy wild voice anew,
          Summon Clan Conuil!
          Come away, come away,
          Hark to the summons!
          Come in your war-array,
          Gentles and commons.

          Come from deep glen, and
          From mountain so rocky;
          The war-pipe and pennon
          Are at Inverlocky.
          Come every hill-plaid, and
          True heart that wears one,
          Come every steel blade, and
          Strong hand that bears one.

          Leave untended the herd,
          The flock without shelter;
          Leave the corpse uninterr’d,
          The bride at the altar;
          Leave the deer, leave the steer,
          Leave nets and barges:
          Come with your fighting gear,
          Broadswords and targes.

          Come as the winds come, when
          Forests are rended,
          Come as the waves come, when
          Navies are stranded:
          Faster come, faster come,
          Faster and faster,
          Chief, vassal, page and groom,
          Tenant and master!

          Fast they come, fast they come;
          See how they gather!
          Wide waves the eagle plume
          Blended with heather.
          Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
          Forward each man set!
          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu
          Knell for the onset!

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        Harp Of The North, Farewell!

          Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,
          On purple peaks a deeper shade descending;
          In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,
          The deer, half-seen, are to the covert wending.
          Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending,
          And the wild breeze, thy wilder minstrelsy;
          Thy numbers sweet with nature’s vespers blending,
          With distant echo from the fold and lea,
          And herd-boy’s evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

          Yet, once again, farewell, thou Minstrel Harp!
          Yet, once again, forgive my feeble sway,
          And little reck I of the censure sharp
          May idly cavil at an idle lay.
          Much have I owed thy strains on life’s long way,
          Through secret woes the world has never known,
          When on the weary night dawned wearier day,
          And bitterer was the grief devoured alone.—
          That I o’erlive such woes, Enchantress! is thine own.

          Hark! as my lingering footsteps slow retire,
          Some spirit of the Air has waked thy string!
          ’Tis now a seraph bold, with touch of fire,
          ’Tis now the brush of Fairy’s frolic wing.
          Receding now, the dying numbers ring
          Fainter and fainter down the rugged dell;
          And now the mountain breezes scarcely bring
          A wandering witch-note of the distant spell—
          And now, ’tis silent all!—Enchantress, fare thee well!

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        Here Shall The Lover Rest

          Here shall the lover rest
          Whom the fates sever
          From his true maiden's breast
          Parted for ever?
          Where, through groves deep and high
          Sounds the far billow,
          Where early violets die
          Under the willow.
          Eleu loro
          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
          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 mingles war's rattle
          With groans of the dying;
          Eleu loro
          There shall he be lying.

          Her wing shall the eagle flap
          O'er the falsehearted;
          His warm blood the wolf shall lap
          Ere life be parted:
          Shame and dishonour sit
          By his grave ever;
          Blessing shall hallow it
          Never, O never!
          Eleu loro
          Never, O never!

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        Here’s A Health To King Charles

          Bring the bowl which you boast,
          Fill it up to the brim;
          ’Tis to him we love most,
          And to all who love him.
          Brave gallants, stand up,
          And avaunt ye, base carles!
          Were there death in the cup,
          Here’s a health to King Charles.

          Though he wanders through dangers,
          Unaided, unknown,
          Dependent on strangers,
          Estranged from his own;
          Though ’tis under our breath,
          Amidst forfeits and perils,
          Here’s to honor and faith,
          And a health to King Charles!

          Let such honors abound
          As the time can afford,
          The knee on the ground,
          And the hand on the sword;
          But the time shall come round
          When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,
          The loud trumpet shall sound,
          Here’s a health to King Charles!

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        Hunter's Song

          The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set,
          Ever sing merrily, merrily;
          The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,
          Hunters live so cheerily.

          It was a stag, a stag of ten,
          Bearing its branches sturdily;
          He came silently down the glen,
          Ever sing hardily, hardily.

          It was there he met with a wounded doe,
          She was bleeding deathfully;
          She warned him of the toils below,
          O so faithfully, faithfully!

          He had an eye, and he could heed,
          Ever sing so warily, warily;
          He had a foot, and he could speed--
          Hunters watch so narrowly.

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        It Was An English Ladye Bright

          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.

          Her 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 see
          A 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!

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        Jock Of Hazeldean

          Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
          Why weep ye by the tide?
          I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
          And ye sall be his bride:
          And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
          Sae comely to be seen"--
          But aye she loot the tears sown fa'
          For Jock of Hazeldean.

          "Now let this wilfu' 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 of Hazeldean.

          "A chain of gold you sall not lack,
          Nor braid to bind your hair;
          Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
          Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
          And you, the foremost o' them a',
          Shall ride our forest queen"--
          But aye she loot the tears down fa'
          For Jock of Hazeldean.

          The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
          The tapers glimmer'd fair;
          The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
          And dame and knight are there.
          They sought her baith by bower and ha';
          The ladie was not seen!
          She's o'er the Border and awa'
          Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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        Lochinvar

          O 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 staid 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 bride's-men, 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,)
          "O 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 I am 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 gailiard 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 Graemes of the Netherby clan;
          Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:
          There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,
          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?

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        Lucy Ashton's Song

          Look not thou on beauty's charming;
          Sit thou still when kings are arming;
          Taste not when the wine-cup glistens;
          Speak not when the people listens;
          Stop thine ear against the singer;
          From the red gold keep thy finger;
          Vacant heart and hand and eye,
          Easy live and quiet die.

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        Lullaby Of An Infant Chief

          Hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,
          Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
          The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
          They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

          O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
          It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
          Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
          Ere the step of a foeman drew near to thy bed.
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

          O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come
          When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
          Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
          For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
          O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo.

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        MacGregor's Gathering

          The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
          And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
          Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
          Gather, gather, gather, &c.

          Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
          Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
          Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
          Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c.

          Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
          Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
          We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
          Landless, landless, landless, &c.

          But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
          MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
          Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
          Courage, courage, courage, &c.

          If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
          Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
          Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
          Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.

          While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
          MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
          Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach,
          Come then, come then, come then, &c.

          Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
          O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
          And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
          Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
          Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
          Gather, gather, gather, &c.

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        Marmion

          Heap on more wood! ¨C the wind is chill;
          But let it whistle as it will,
          We¡¯ll keep our Christmas merry still.
          Each age has deem¡¯d the new-born year
          The fittest time for festal cheer:
          Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
          At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
          High on the beach his galleys drew,
          And feasted all his pirate crew;
          Then in his low and pine-built hall
          Where shields and axes deck¡¯d the wall
          They gorged upon the half-dress¡¯d steer;
          Caroused in seas of sable beer;
          While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
          The half-gnaw¡¯d rib, and marrow-bone:
          Or listen¡¯d all, in grim delight,
          While Scalds yell¡¯d out the joys of fight.
          Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
          While wildly loose their red locks fly,
          And dancing round the blazing pile,
          They make such barbarous mirth the while,
          As best might to the mind recall
          The boisterous joys of Odin¡¯s hall.

          And well our Christian sires of old
          Loved when the year its course had roll¡¯d,
          And brought blithe Christmas back again,
          With all his hospitable train.
          Domestic and religious rite
          Gave honour to the holy night;
          On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
          On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
          That only night in all the year,
          Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
          The damsel donn¡¯d her kirtle sheen;
          The hall was dress¡¯d with holly green;
          Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
          To gather in the mistletoe.
          Then open¡¯d wide the Baron¡¯s hall
          To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
          Power laid his rod of rule aside
          And Ceremony doff¡¯d his pride.
          The heir, with roses in his shoes,
          That night might village partner choose;
          The Lord, underogating, share
          The vulgar game of ¡®post and pair¡¯.
          All hail¡¯d, with uncontroll¡¯d delight,
          And general voice, the happy night,
          That to the cottage, as the crown,
          Brought tidings of salvation down.

          The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
          Went roaring up the chimney wide;
          The huge hall-table¡¯s oaken face,
          Scrubb¡¯d till it shone, the day to grace,
          Bore then upon its massive board
          No mark to part the squire and lord.
          Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
          By old blue-coated serving-man;
          Then the grim boar¡¯s head frown¡¯d on high,
          Crested with bays and rosemary.
          Well can the green-garb¡¯d ranger tell,
          How, when, and where, the monster fell;
          What dogs before his death to tore,
          And all the baiting of the boar.
          The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
          Garnish¡¯d with ribbons, blithely trowls.
          There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard by
          Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
          Nor fail¡¯d old Scotland to produce,
          At such high tide, her savoury goose.
          Then came the merry makers in,
          And carols roar¡¯d with blithesome din;
          If unmelodious was the song,
          It was a hearty note, and strong.
          Who lists may in their mumming see
          Traces of ancient mystery;
          White shirts supplied the masquerade,
          And smutted cheeks the visors made;
          But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
          Can boast of bosoms half so light!
          England was merry England, when
          Old Christmas brought his sports again.
          ¡®Twas Christmas broach¡¯d the mightiest ale;
          ¡Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
          A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
          The poor man¡¯s heart through half the year.

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        My Native Land

          Breathes there the man, with soul so dead,
          Who never to himself hath said,
          This is my own, my native land!
          Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd,
          As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
          From wandering on a foreign strand!
          If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
          For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
          High though his titles, proud his name,
          Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
          Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
          The wretch, concentred all in self,
          Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
          And, doubly dying, shall go down
          To the vile dust, from whence he sprung,
          Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

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        On Leaving Mrs. Brown's Lodgings

          So goodbye, Mrs. Brown,
          I am going out of town,
          Over dale, over down,
          Where bugs bite not,
          Where lodgers fight not,
          Where below your chairmen drink not,
          Where beside your gutters stink not;
          But all is fresh and clean and gay,
          And merry lambkins sport and play,
          And they toss with rakes uncommonly short hay,
          Which looks as if it had been sown only the other day,
          And where oats are twenty-five shillings a boll, they say;
          But all's one for that, since I must and will away.

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        Patriotism. I Innominatus

          BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,
          Who never to himself hath said,
          'This is my own, my native land!'
          Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
          As home his footsteps he hath turn'd
          From wandering on a foreign strand?
          If such there breathe, go, mark him well;
          For him no Minstrel raptures swell;
          High though his titles, proud his name,
          Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;
          Despite those titles, power, and pelf,
          The wretch, concentred all in self,
          Living, shall forfeit fair renown,
          And, doubly dying, shall go down
          To the vile dust from whence he sprung,
          Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

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        Patriotism II. Nelson, Pitt, Fox

          To mute and to material things
          New life revolving summer brings;
          The genial call dead Nature hears,
          And in her glory reappears.
          But oh, my Country's wintry state
          What second spring shall renovate?
          What powerful call shall bid arise
          The buried warlike and the wise;

          The mind that thought for Britain's weal,
          The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?
          The vernal sun new life bestows
          Even on the meanest flower that blows;
          But vainly, vainly may he shine
          Where glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine;
          And vainly pierce the solemn gloom
          That shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

          Deep graved in every British heart,
          O never let those names depart!
          Say to your sons,--Lo, here his grave,
          Who victor died on Gadite wave!
          To him, as to the burning levin,
          Short, bright, resistless course was given.
          Where'er his country's foes were found
          Was heard the fated thunder's sound,
          Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,
          Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd--and was no more.

          Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,
          Who bade the conqueror go forth,
          And launch'd that thunderbolt of war
          On Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;
          Who, born to guide such high emprise,
          For Britain's weal was early wise;
          Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,
          For Britain's sins, an early grave!
          --His worth, who in his mightiest hour
          A bauble held the pride of power,
          Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,
          And served his Albion for herself;
          Who, when the frantic crowd amain
          Strain'd at subjection's bursting rein,
          O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,
          The pride he would not crush, restrain'd,
          Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,
          And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

          Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,
          A watchman on the lonely tower,
          Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,
          When fraud or danger were at hand;
          By thee, as by the beacon-light,
          Our pilots had kept course aright;
          As some proud column, though alone,
          Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.
          Now is the stately column broke,
          The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,
          The trumpet's silver voice is still,
          The warder silent on the hill!

          O think, how to his latest day,
          When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,
          With Palinure's unalter'd mood
          Firm at his dangerous post he stood;
          Each call for needful rest repell'd,
          With dying hand the rudder held,
          Till in his fall with fateful sway
          The steerage of the realm gave way.
          Then--while on Britain's thousand plains
          One polluted church remains,
          Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent around
          The bloody tocsin's maddening sound,
          But still upon the hallow'd day
          Convoke the swains to praise and pray;
          While faith and civil peace are dear,
          Grace this cold marble with a tear:--
          He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

          Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,
          Because his rival slumbers nigh;
          Nor be thy Requiescat dumb
          Lest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.
          For talents mourn, untimely lost,
          When best employ'd, and wanted most;
          Mourn genius high, and lore profound,
          And wit that loved to play, not wound;
          And all the reasoning powers divine
          To penetrate, resolve, combine;
          And feelings keen, and fancy's glow--
          They sleep with him who sleeps below:
          And, if thou mourn'st they could not save
          From error him who owns this grave,
          Be every harsher thought suppress'd,
          And sacred be the last long rest.
          Here, where the end of earthly things
          Lays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;
          Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,
          Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;
          Here, where the fretted vaults prolong
          The distant notes of holy song,
          As if some angel spoke agen,
          'All peace on earth, good-will to men';
          If ever from an English heart,
          O, here let prejudice depart,
          And, partial feeling cast aside,
          Record that Fox a Briton died!
          When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,
          And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,
          And the firm Russian's purpose brave
          Was barter'd by a timorous slave--
          Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd,
          The sullied olive-branch return'd,
          Stood for his country's glory fast,
          And nail'd her colours to the mast!
          Heaven, to reward his firmness, gave
          A portion in this honour'd grave;
          And ne'er held marble in its trust
          Of two such wondrous men the dust.

          With more than mortal powers endow'd,
          How high they soar'd above the crowd!
          Theirs was no common party race,
          Jostling by dark intrigue for place;
          Like fabled gods, their mighty war
          Shook realms and nations in its jar;
          Beneath each banner proud to stand,
          Look'd up the noblest of the land,
          Till through the British world were known
          The names of PITT and Fox alone.
          Spells of such force no wizard grave
          E'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,
          Though his could drain the ocean dry,
          And force the planets from the sky.
          These spells are spent, and, spent with these,
          The wine of life is on the lees.
          Genius, and taste, and talent gone,
          For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,
          Where--taming thought to human pride!--
          The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.
          Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,
          'Twill trickle to his rival's bier;
          O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound,
          And Fox's shall the notes rebound.
          The solemn echo seems to cry,
          'Here let their discord with them die.
          Speak not for those a separate doom
          Whom fate made Brothers in the tomb;
          But search the land of living men,
          Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

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        Pibroch Of Donail Dhu

          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
          Pibroch of Donuil,
          Wake thy wild voice anew,
          Summon Clan-Conuil.
          Come away, come away,
          Hark to the summons!
          Come in your war array,
          Gentles and commons.

          Come from deep glen and
          From mountain so rocky,
          The war-pipe and pennon
          Are at Inverlochy.
          Come every hill-plaid and
          True heart that wears one,
          Come every steel blade and
          Strong hand that bears one.

          Leave untended the herd,
          The flock without shelter;
          Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
          The bride at the altar;
          Leave the deer, leave the steer,
          Leave nets and barges:
          Come with your fighting gear,
          Broadswords and targes.

          Come as the winds come, when
          Forests are rended;
          Come as the waves come, when
          Navies are stranded:
          Faster come, faster come,
          Faster and faster,
          Chief, vassal, page and groom,
          Tenant and master.

          Fast they come, fast they come;
          See how they gather!
          Wide waves the eagle plume,
          Blended with heather.
          Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
          Forward each man set!
          Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
          Knell for the onset!

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        Rosabelle

          O listen, listen, ladies gay!
          No haughty feat of arms I tell;
          Soft is the note, and sad the lay
          That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

          ‘Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
          And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
          Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
          Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

          ‘The blackening wave is edged with white;
          To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
          The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,
          Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

          ‘Last night the gifted Seer did view
          A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
          Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
          Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?’

          ’Tis not because Lord Lindesay’s heir
          Tonight at Roslin leads the ball,
          But that my lady-mother there
          Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

          ’Tis not because the ring they ride,
          And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
          But that my sire the wine will chide
          If ’tis not fill’d by Rosabelle.’

          —O’er Roslin all that dreary night
          A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;
          ’Twas broader than the watch-fire’s light,
          And redder than the bright moonbeam.

          It glared on Roslin’s castled rock,
          It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;
          ’Twas seen from Dryden’s groves of oak,
          And seen from cavern’d Hawthornden.

          Seem’d all on fire that chapel proud
          Where Roslin’s chiefs uncoffin’d lie,
          Each Baron, for a sable shroud,
          Sheathed in his iron panoply.

          Seem’d all on fire within, around,
          Deep sacristy and altar’s pale;
          Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
          And glimmer’d all the dead men’s mail.

          Blazed battlement and pinnet high,
          Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair—
          So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
          The lordly line of high Saint Clair.

          There are twenty of Roslin’s barons bold
          Lie buried within that proud chapelle;
          Each one the holy vault doth hold
          But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

          And each Saint Clair was buried there
          With candle, with book, and with knell;
          But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung
          The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

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        Sound, Sound The Clarion

          Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
          To all the sensual world proclaim,
          One crowded hour of glorious life
          Is worth an age without a name.

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        The Maid Of Neidpath

          O lovers’ eyes are sharp to see,
          And lovers’ ears in hearing;
          And love, in life’s extremity,
          Can lend an hour of cheering.
          Disease had been in Mary’s bower
          And slow decay from mourning,
          Though now she sits on Neidpath’s tower
          To watch her Love’s returning.

          All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
          Her form decay’d by pining,
          Till through her wasted hand, at night,
          You saw the taper shining.
          By fits a sultry hectic hue
          Across her cheek was flying;
          By fits so ashy pale she grew
          Her maidens thought her dying.

          Yet keenest powers to see and hear
          Seem’d in her frame residing;
          Before the watch-dog prick’d his ear
          She heard her lover’s riding;
          Ere scarce a distant form was kenn’d
          She knew and waved to greet him,
          And o’er the battlement did bend
          As on the wing to meet him.

          He came—he pass’d—an heedless gaze
          As o’er some stranger glancing:
          Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
          Lost in his courser’s prancing—
          The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
          Returns each whisper spoken,
          Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
          Which told her heart was broken.

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        The Outlaw

          O, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
          And Greta woods are green,
          And you may gather garlands there,
          Would grace a summer queen:
          And as I rode by Dalton Hall,
          Beneath the turrets high,
          A Maiden on the castle wall
          Was singing merrily:—

          'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
          And Greta woods are green!
          I'd rather rove with Edmund there
          Than reign our English Queen.'

          'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me
          To leave both tower and town,
          Thou first must guess what life lead we,
          That dwell by dale and down:
          And if thou canst that riddle read,
          As read full well you may,
          Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed
          As blithe as Queen of May.'

          Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
          And Greta woods are green!
          I'd rather rove with Edmund there
          Than reign our English Queen.

          'I read you by your bugle horn
          And by your palfrey good,
          I read you for a Ranger sworn
          To keep the King's green-wood.'
          'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,
          And 'tis at peep of light;
          His blast is heard at merry morn,
          And mine at dead of night.'

          Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
          And Greta woods are gay!
          I would I were with Edmund there,
          To reign his Queen of May!

          'With burnish'd brand and musketoon
          So gallantly you come,
          I read you for a bold Dragoon,
          That lists the tuck of drum.'
          'I list no more the tuck of drum,
          No more the trumpet hear;
          But when the beetle sounds his hum,
          My comrades take the spear.

          'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,
          And Greta woods be gay,
          Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
          Would reign my Queen of May!

          'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,
          A nameless death I'll die;
          The fiend whose lantern lights the mead
          Were better mate than I!
          And when I'm with my comrades met
          Beneath the green-wood bough,
          What once we were we all forget,
          Nor think what we are now.'

          Chorus

          Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
          And Greta woods are green,
          And you may gather flowers there
          Would grace a summer queen.

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        The Rover's Adieu

          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 the bridle-reins a shake,
          Said 'Adieu for evermore,
          My Love!
          And adieu for evermore.'

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        The Truth Of Woman

          Woman's faith, and woman's trust -
          Write the characters in the dust;
          Stamp them on the running stream,
          Print them on the moon's pale beam,
          And each evanescent letter
          Shall be clearer, firmer, better,
          And more permanent, I ween,
          Than the thing those letters mean.

          I have strain'd the spider's thread
          'Gainst the promise of a maid;
          I have weigh'd a grain of sand
          'Gainst her plight of heart and hand;
          I told my true love of the token,
          How her faith proved light, and her word was broken:
          Again her word and truth she plight,
          And I believed them again ere night.

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        To A Lock Of Hair

          Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright
          As in that well - remember'd night
          When first thy mystic braid was wove,
          And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

          Since then how often hast thou prest
          The torrid zone of this wild breast,
          Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell
          With the first sin that peopled hell;
          A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,
          Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!
          O if such clime thou canst endure
          Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
          What conquest o'er each erring thought
          Of that fierce realm had Agnes wrought!
          I had not wander'd far and wide
          With such an angel for my guide;
          Nor heaven nor earth could then reprove me
          If she had lived and lived to love me.

          Not then this world's wild joys had been
          To me one savage hunting scene,
          My sole delight the headlong race
          And frantic hurry of the chase;
          To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
          Rush in, drag down, and rend my prey,
          Then - from the carcass turn away!
          Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,
          And soothed each wound which pride inflamed: -
          Yes, God and man might now approve me
          If thou hadst lived and lived to love me!

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