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"Where are ye gaun, ye mason lads,
Wi' a' your ladders, lang and hie?' "We gang to herry a corbie's nest,
That wons not far frae Woodhouselee.' "Where be ye gaun, ye broken men ?"
Quo' fause Sakelde ; "come tell to me!' Now Dickie of Dryhope led that band,
And the never a word o' lear had he.
"Why trespass ye on the English side?
Row-footed outlaws, stand !' quo' he ; The never a word had Dickie to say,
Sae he thrust the lance through his fause bodie. Then on we held for Carlisle toun,
And at Staneshaw-bank the Eden we cross'd; The water was great and meikle of spait,
But the never a horse nor man we lost.
And when we reach'd the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind was rising loud and hie ;
For fear that they should stamp and nie.
And when we left the Staneshaw-bank,
The wind began full loud to blaw;
When we came beneath the castle wa’.
We crept on knees, and held our breath,
Till we placed the ladders against the wa';
To mount the first, before us a'.
He flung him down upon the lead-
Upon the other side thou hadst gaed !
'Let's waken Lord Scroope right merrilie !' Then loud the warden's trumpet blew
CO wha dare meddle wi" me?'
Then speedilie to work we gaed,
And raised the slogan ane and a',
And so we wan to the castle ha'.
Had won the house wi' bow and spear ;
That put a thousand in sic a stear ! Wi' coulters, and wi’ fore-hammers,
We garr'd the bars bang merrilie, Until we cam to the inner prison,
Where Willie O'Kinmont he did lie.
And when we cam to the lower prison,
Where Willie o' Kinmont he did lie 'O sleep ye, wake ye, Kinmont Willie,
Upon the morn that thou's to die?' O I sleep saft, and I wake aft ;
It's lang since sleeping was fley'd frae me ; Gie my service back to my wife and bairns,
And a' gude fellows that spier for me.' Then Red Rowan has hente him up,
The starkest man in Teviotdale'Abide, abide now, Red Rowan,
Till of my Lord Scroope I take farewell. 'Farewell, farewell, my gude Lord Scroope !
My gude Lord Scroope, farewell !' he cried'I'll pay you for my lodging maill,
When first we meet on the Border side.'
Then shoulder high, with shout and cry,
We bore him down the ladder lang ; At every stride Red Rowan made,
I wot'the Kinmont's airns played clang ! “O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie,
'I have ridden horse baith wild and wood ; But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,
Į ween my legs have ne'er bestrode,
And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie,
I've pricked a horse out oure the furs ;
I never wore sic cumbrous spurs !'
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
Cam'wi' the keen Lord Scroope along. Buccleuch has turned to Eden water,
Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band,
And safely swam them thro' the stream. He turned him on the other side,
And at Lord Scroope his glove Aung he'If ye like na my visit in merry England,
In fair Scotland come visit me!'
All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane ; He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When thro’ the water they had gane. " He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be ; I wadna have ridden that wan water For a' the gowd in Christentie.'
MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.
The Last Man
ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Adown the gulph of Time !
As Adam saw her prime !
The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
Around that lonely man !
In plague and famine some !
To shores where all was dumb !
Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As it a storm passed by, Saying, "We are twins in death, proud Sun ! Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
'Tis Mercy bids thee go ; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow.
"What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill ;
The vassals of his will ;-
For all those trophied arts
Entail'd on human hearts.
Go, let oblivion's curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Life's tragedy again :
Of pain anew to writhe;
Like grass beneath the scythe.
E'en I am weary
Behold not me expire.
To see thou shalt not boast.
Receive my parting ghost !
That gave its heavenly spark;
When thou thyself art dark !
By Him recalled to breath,
And took the sting from Death !
On Nature's awful waste
Of grief that man shall taste---
On Earth's sepulchral clod,
A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS
Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of
Navarre ! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh
pleasant land of France !