And he that had a bonnie boy,

Sent out his horse to grass ;
And he that had not a bonnie boy,

His ain servant he was.

But up then spake a little page,

Before the peep of dawn-
O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,

For Percy's hard at hand.' ‘Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud !

Sae loud I hear ye lie :
For Percy had not men yestreen,

To dight my men and me.
* But I hae dream'd a dreary dream,

Beyond the Isle of Sky;
I saw a dead man win a fight,

And I think that man was I.'

He belted on his good braid sword,

And to the field he ran ;
But he forgot the helmet good,

That should have kept his brain.
When Percy wi' the Douglas met,

I wat he was fu’ fain! They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,

And the blood ran down like rain.

But Percy with his good braid sword,

That could so sharply wound,
Has wounded Douglas on the brow,

Till he fell to the ground.

Then he call’d on his little foot page,

And said—Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,

Sir Hugh Montgomery.
My nephew good,' the Douglas said,

What recks the death of ane !
Last night I dream'd a dreary dream,

And I ken the day's thy ain.

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“My wound is deep ; I fain would sleep;

Take thou the vanguard of the three, And hide me by the braken bush,

That grows on yonder lilye lee. O bury me by the braken bush

Beneath the blooming briar, Let never living mortal ken,

That ere a kindly Scot lies here. He lifted up that noble lord,

Wi' the saut tear in his e'e ; He hid him in the braken bush,

That his merrie men might not see. The moon was clear, the day drew near,

The spears in flinders flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman

Ere day the Scotsmen slew.
The Gordons good, in English blood

They steeped their hose and shoon;
The Lindesays flew like fire about,

Till all the fray was done.
The Percy and Montgomery met,

That either of other were fain ;
They swakked swords, and they twa swat,

And aye the blude ran down between.
• Yield thee, O yield thee, Percy !' he said,

'Or else I vow I'll lay thee low !' · Whom to shall I yield,' said Earl Percy,

"Now that I see it must be so ?'

"Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,

Nor yet shalt thou yield to me ; But yield thee to the braken bush,

That grows upon yon lilye lee!' • I will not yield to a braken bush,

Nor yet will I yield to a briar; But I would yield to Earl Douglas,

Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here,

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,

He stuck his sword's point in the gronde ; And the Montgomery was a courteous knight,

And quickly took him by the honde. This deed was done at Otterbourne,

About the breaking of the day ; Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,

And the Percy led captive away.




YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime.
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who would not sing for Lycidas ? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd urn;
And as he passes turn
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill. Together both, ere the high lawns appeard Under the opening eyelids of the morn,

We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star, that rose, at evening, bright,
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his west'ring wheel
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to the oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.

But, О the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return !
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The willows and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the whitethorn blows ;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherds' ear.

Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream:
Ay me! I fondly dream !
Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore ?

Alas! what boots it with incessant care
To tend the homely slighted shepherd's trade
And strictly mediate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done as others


To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious days ;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorrèd shears
And slits the thin-spun life. * But not the praise,
Phæbus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears ;
'Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glist'ring foil
Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies ;
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove ;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heav'n expect thy meed.'

O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown’d with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood : But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the herald of the sea That came in Neptune's plea ; He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beakèd promontory : They knew not of his story, And sage Hippotadès their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flow'r inscribed with woe. “Ah! who hath reft,' quoth he, “my dearest pledge?' Last came, and last did go,

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