'Edward, lo ! to sudden fate

(Weave we the woof. The thread is spun.) Half of thy heart we consecrate.

(The web is wove. The work is done.)
Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn
Leave me unbless'd, unpitied, here to mourn :
In yon bright track, that fires the western skies,
They melt, they vanish from my eyes.
But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height

Descending slow their glitt'ring skirts unroll?
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight,

Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul !
No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail :-
All hail, ye genuine kings ! Britannia's issue, hail !

Girt with many a baron bold
Sublime their starry fronts they rear ;

And gorgeous Dames, and Statesmen old
In bearded majesty, appear.
In the midst a form divine !
Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line :
Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face
Attemper'd sweet to virgin-grace.
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,

What strains of vocal transport round her play.
Hear from the grave, great Tāliessin, hear;

They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls, and soaring, as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings.

“The verse adorn again

Fierce War, and faithful Love,
And Truth severe, by fairy Fiction drest.

In buskin'd measures move
Pale Grief, and pleasing Pain,
With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breast.
A voice as of the Cherub-Choir

Gales from blooming Eden bear ;

And distant warblings lessen on my ear, That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious Man, think'st thou, yon sanguine cloud

Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,

And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me : with joy I see

The different doom our fates assign : Be thine Despair and sceptred Care,

To triumph, and to die, are mine.' – He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.



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, &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 mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Eleu loro, &c. There shall he be lying.
Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted ;
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, &c. Never, O never !


Kinmont Willie

O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde ?

O have ye na heard o' the keen Lord Scroope ? How they hae ta’en bauld Kinmont Willie,

On Hairibee to hang him up?

Had Willie had but twenty men,

But twenty men as stout as he,
Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en,

Wi' eight score in his cumpanie.

They band his legs beneath the steed,

They tied his hands behind his back ; They guarded him, fivesome on each side,

And they brought him ower the Liddel-rack. They led him thro' the Liddel-rack,

And also thro' the Carlisle sands; They brought him on to Carlisle castell,

To be at my Lord Scroope's commands,

‘My hands are tied, but my tongue is free,

And whae will dare this deed avow ? Or answer by the Border law?

Or answer to the bauld Buccleuch ?'


Now haud thy tongue, thou rank reiver !

There's never a Scot shall set ye free : Before ye cross my castle yate,

I trow ye shall take farewell o' me. 'Fear na ye that, my lord,' quo' Willie .

By the faith o' my body, Lord Scroope,' he said, 'I never yet lodged in a hostelrie,

But I paid my lawing before I gaed.' Now word is gane to the bauld Keeper,

In Branksome Ha’ where that he lay, That Lord Scroope has ta'en the Kinmont Willie,

Between the hours of night and day. He has ta'en the table wi' his hand,

He garrd the red wine spring on hieNow Christ's curse on my head,' he said,

'But avenged of Lord Scroope I'll be ! O is my basnet a widow's curch ?

Or my lance wand of the willow tree? Or my arm a lady's lilye hand,

That an English lord should lightly me! ' And have they ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,

Against the truce of Border tide ?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch

Is Keeper here on the Scottish side ?
* And have they e’en ta’en him, Kinmont Willie,

Withouten either dread or fear?
And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch

Can back a steed, or shake a spear?
O were there war between the lands,

As well I wot that there is none, I would slight Carlisle castell high,

Tho' it were builded of marble stone,

"I would set that castell in a low,

And sloken it with English blood ! There's never a man in Cumberland

Should ken where Carlisle castell stood.

• But since nae war's between the lands,

And there is peace, and peace should be ; I'll neither harm English lad or lass,

And yet the Kinmont freed shall be !' He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,

I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, calld

The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has calld him forty marchmen bauld,

Were kinsmen to the bauld Buccleuch ; With spur on heel, and splent on spauld,

And gleuves of green, and feathers blue. There were five and five before them a',

Wi' hunting-horns and bugles bright; And five and five came wi' Buccleuch,

Like warden's men, arrayed for fight. And five and five, like a mason gang,

That carried the ladders lang and hie ; And five and five, like broken men ;

And so they reach the Woodhouselee. And as we cross'd the 'bateable Land,

When to the English side we held, The first omen that we met wi',

Whae sould it be but fause Sakelde ?

"Where be ye gaun, ye hunters keen?'

Quo' fause Sakelde ; 'come tell to me!' "We go to hunt an English stag,

Has trespass'd on the Scots countrie.'

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"Where be ye gaun, ye marshal men ?'

Quo' fause Sakelde ; come tell me true!' We go to catch a rank reiver,

Has broken faith wi' the bauld Buccleuch,

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