thatch The swallow, oft, beneath my Around my ivied porch shall spring In russet gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, And point with taper spire to Heaven. SAMUEL ROGERS. THE BANKS O'DOON. I. YE banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care! Thou 'lt break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed never to return! II. Aft hae I rov'd by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine. Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, ROBERT BURNS. EVENING. THE sun upon the lake is low, In the calm sunset may repair The noble dame on turret high, The village maid, with hand on brow 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! SIR WALTER SCOTT SONG. THERE is mist on the mountain and night on the vale It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand! The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust, The deeds of our sires if our bards should rehearse, Let a blush or a blow be the meed of their verse! Be mute every string, and be hushed every tone, That shall bid us remember the fame that is flown. But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past, O high-minded Moray!- the exiled the dear! Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break, sprung from the Kings who in Islay kept state, Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glengary, and Sleat! Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow, And resistless in union rush down on the foe! True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel, Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel! Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy bugle's bold swell. Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell! Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail, Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale! May the race of Clan-Gillian, the fearless and free, Remember Glenlivet, Harlaw, and Dundee! Let the clan of gray Fingon, whose offspring has given Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven, Unite with the race of renowned Rori More, To launch the long galley, and stretch to the oar! How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar, Awake on your hills, on your islands awake! Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake! 'Tis the bugle but not for the chase is the call; 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summons but not to the hall Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death, When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath. They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe, Be the brand of each chieftain like Fin's in his ire! May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire! Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore! Waverley. GLENARA. O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale, Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud; In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, And tell me, I charge you! ye clan of my spouse, Why fold ye your mantles? why cloud ye your brows? So spake the rude chieftain: no answer is made, But each mantle unfolding a dagger display'd. |