thatch

The swallow, oft, beneath my
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrm lift the latch,
And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring
Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew;
And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing

In russet gown

and apron

blue.

The village church among the trees,
Where first our marriage vows were given,
With merry peals shall swell the breeze

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,
Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree;
And my fause luver stole my rose,
But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

EVENING.

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 armor 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!

SIR WALTER SCOTT

SONG.

THERE is mist on the mountain and night on the vale
But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.
A stranger commanded-it sunk on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumbed every hand!

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,
The bloodless claymore is but reddened with rust:
On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,
It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

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,
The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;
Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,
And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze

O high-minded Moray!- the exiled the dear!
In the blush of the dawning the Standard uprear!
Wide, wide to the winds of the north let it fly,
Like the sun's latest flash when the tempest is nigh.

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break,
Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?
That dawn never beamed on your forefathers' eye,
But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

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
The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of gray!
How the race of wronged Alpine and murdered Glencoe
Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great Callum-More
Mac-Neil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,
For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

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,
To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

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!
Or die, like your sires, and endure it no more!
SIR WALTER Scott.

Waverley.

GLENARA.

O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale,
Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and wail?
'Tis the chief of Glenara laments for his dear;
And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier.

Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud;
Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourned not aloud:
Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around:
They march'd all in silence, they looked on the
ground.

In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor,
To a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and hoar:
"Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn;
Why speak ye no word?" said Glenara the stern.

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.