'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 : But oh! what solemn scenes on Snowdon's height Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my soul ! '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 : What strings symphonious tremble in the air, '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. 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. T. GRAY. Song 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. CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Soft shall be his pillow. There, through the summer day, Parted for ever, Never, O never! CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! Where shall the traitor rest, Who could win maiden's breast, In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, CHORUS 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! CHORUS Eleu loro, &c. Never, O never! Kinmont Willie SCOTT. O HAVE ye na heard o' the fause Sakelde? Had Willie had but twenty men, But twenty men as stout as he, Fause Sakelde had never the Kinmont ta'en, 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, 'My hands are tied, but my tongue is free, 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, He has ta'en the table wi' his hand, He garr'd the red wine spring on hie'Now Christ's curse on my head,' he said, 'But avengèd of Lord Scroope I'll be ! 'O is my basnet a widow's curch? Or my lance a 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, 'And have they e'en ta'en him, Kinmont Willie, And forgotten that the bauld Buccleuch 'O were there war between the lands, Tho' it were builded of marble stone, 'I would set that castell in a low, '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 call'd him forty marchmen bauld, I trow they were of his ain name, Except Sir Gilbert Elliot, call'd The laird of Stobs, I mean the same. He has call'd him forty marchmen bauld, There were five and five before them a', And five and five, like a mason gang, And so they reach the Woodhouselee. And as we cross'd the 'bateable Land, 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.' '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,' |