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he heard the chant of the women, as they swathed and dressed the corpse of the umquhile Bonnet-maker, for the ceremony of next morning, of which chant, the following verses may be received as a modern imitation :
A fever fit, and then a chill; And then an end of human ill:
For thou art dead.
THE DEATH OF KEELDAR
VIEWLESS Essence, thin and bare,
Pause upon thy pinion's flight,
These verses, written in 1828, were published in The Gem, an annual edited by Hood. They accompanied an engraving from a painting by Cooper, suggested by the incident. UP rose the sun o'er moor and mead; Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,
Careered along the lea;
They were a jovial three !
On Cheviot's rueful day:
And right dear friends were they.
When the form thou shalt espy That darkened on thy closing eye; When the footstep thou shalt hear That thrilled upon thy dying ear;
Then strange sympathies shall wake,
The chase engrossed their joys and woes.
By fountain or by stream;
Still hunted in his dream.
SONG OF THE GLEE-MAIDEN
From Chapter xxx.
"The maiden sung a melancholy Iirge in Norman French; the words, of which the following is an imitation, were united to a tune as doleful as they are themselves : '
Yes, thou mayst sigh, And look once more at all around, At stream and bank, and sky and ground ; Thy life its final course has found,
And thou must die.
Now is the thrilling moment near
The signs the hunters know:
The archer strings his bow. The game 's afoot ! Halloo ! Halloo ! Hunter and horse and hound pursue;But woe the shaft that erring flew
That e'er it left the string ! And ill betide the faithless yew ! The stag bounds scathless o'er the dew, And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true
Has drenched the gray-goose wing.
Yes, lay thee down, And while thy struggling pulses flutter, Bid the
monk his soul-mass mutter And the deep bell its death-tone utter:
Thy life is gone.
Be not afraid,
THE SECRET TRIBUNAL
From Anne of Geierstein, published in 1829.
The noble hound — he dies, he dies; Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes; Stiff on the bloody heath he lies
Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps forever. Dilated nostrils, staring eyes, Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise; He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death but still His aspect hath expression drear Of grief and wonder mixed with fear, Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.
From Chapter xx. 'Philipson could perceive that the lights proceeded from many torches, borne by men muffled in black cloaks, like mourners at a funeral, or the Black Friars of Saint Francis's Order, wearing their cowls drawn over their heads, so as to conceal their features. They appeared anxiously engaged in measuring off a portion of the apartment; and, while occupied in that employment, they sung, in the ancient German language, rhymes more rude than Philipson could well understand, but which may be imitated thus :'
But he that bent the fatal bow
In speechless grief recline;
away, Dear master, was it thine ?
MEASURERS of good and evil,
• And if it be, the shaft be blessed Which sure some erring aim addressed, Since in your service prized, caressed,
I in your service die; And you may have a fleeter hound To match the dun-deer's merry bound, But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I.'
On life and soul, on blood and bone,
And to his last stout Percy rued The fatal chance, for when he stood 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud
Avd fell amid the fray, E’en with his dying voice he cried, · Had Keeldar but been at my side, Your treacherous ambush had been spied –
I had not died to-day!'
How wears the night? Doth morning
Remembrance of the erring bow
Down dark oblivion's river; But Art can Time's stern doom arrest And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast, And, in her Cooper's lors drest,
The scene shall live forever.
The night is old; on Rhine's broad breast
No beams are twinkling in the east.
'T is time we listen the behest.
Up, then, up! When day 's at rest,
Tis time that such as we are watchers;
Rise to judgment, brethren, rise !
He and night are matchers.
FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV.
George Scott was the son of Hugh Scott of
Harden. He died at Kentisbeare, in DevonTHE FORAY
shire, where he was rector of the church, in
1830. The verses are on his tomb. Printed in Thomson's Scottish Collection, 1830, and set to music by John Whitefield, To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale Mus, Doc. Cam.
Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale.
Art thou a parent ? Reverence this bier, The last of our steers on the board has
The parents' fondest hopes lie buried here. been spread,
Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start, And the last Aask of wine in our goblet is
With opening talents and a generous heart;
Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords
own ? and begone,
Lo! here their end
- a monumental stone. There are dangers to dare and there 's spoil | But let submission tame each sorrowing to be won.
Heaven crowned its champion ere the fight The eyes that so lately mixed glances with
was fought. For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
SONGS FROM THE DOOM OF And strive to distinguish through tempest
DEVORGOIL and gloom The prance of the steed and the toss of the
Scott's play, The Doom of Devorgoil, though plume.
not published till 1830, was sketched, and appa
rently written as early as 1817, and the song of The rain is descending; the wind rises Bonny Dundee was written, Scott notes in his loud;
diary, in December, 1825. He notes also that And the moon her red beacon has veiled the first song was abridged into County Guy.
with a cloud; 'Tis the better, my mates ! for the warder's dull eye
THE SUN UPON THE LAKE' Shall in confidence slumber nor dream we
The sun upon the lake is low, are nigh.
The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening's deepest glow, Our steeds are impatient! I hear my
Yet Leonard tarries long. blithe Gray !
Now all whom varied toil and care There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in
From home and love divide, his neigh;
In the calm sunset may repair Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of
Each to the loved one's side. his mane Shall marshal your march through the The noble dame, on turret high darkness and rain.
Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy The drawbridge has dropped, the bugle The flash of armor bright. has blown;
The village maid, with hand on brow One pledge is to quaff yet — then mount The level ray to shade, and begone!
Upon the footpath watches now To their honor and peace that shall rest For Colin's darkening plaid.
with the slain; To their health and their glee that see Now to their mates the wild swans row, Teviot again!
By day they swam apart;
My form but lingered at the game,
My soul was still with you.
And to the thicket wanders slow
The hind beside the bart. The woodlark at his partner's side
Twitters his closing song All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long.
WHEN THE TEMPEST'
We love the shrill trumpet, we love the
drum's rattle, They call us to sport, and they call us to
battle; And old Scotland shall laugh at the threats
of a stranger, While our comrades in pastime are com
rades in danger. If there's mirth in our house, 't is our
neighbor that shares it If peril approach, 't is our neighbor that
dares it; And when we lead off to the pipe and the
tabor, The fair hand we press is the hand of a
neighbor. Then close your ranks, comrades, the bands
that combine them, Faith, friendship, and brotherhood, joined
to entwine them; And we 'll laugh at the threats of each in
solent stranger, While our comrades in sport are our com
rades in danger.
WHEN the tempest 's at the loudest
On its gale the eagle rides; When the ocean rolls the proudest
Through the foam the sea-bird glides – All the rage of wind and sea Is subdued by constancy. Gnawing want and sickness pining,
All the ills that men endure,
Constancy can find a cure —
poor, Heap on insults without measure,
Chain me to a dungeon floor
AIR — The Bonnets of Bonny Dundee To the Lords of Convention 't was Clav.
er'se who spoke, • Ere the King's crown shall fall there are
crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honor and
me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee
Come fill up my cup, come fill up my
can, Come saddle your horses and call up
your men; Come open the West Port and let me
'ADMIRE NOT THAT I GAINED THE PRIZE'
ADMIRE not that I gained the prize
From all the village crew; How could I fail with hand or eyes
When heart and faith were true ?
And it 's room for the bonnets of Bonny
And when in floods of rosy wine
My comrades drowned their cares, I thought but that thy heart was mine,
My own leapt light as theirs. My brief delay then do not blame,
Nor deem your swain untrue;
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the
street, The bells are rung backward, the drums
they are beat;
But the Provost, douce man, said, “Just
e'en let him be, The Gude_Town is weel quit of that Deil
Come fill up my cup, etc. As be rode down the sanctified bends of
the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her
pow; But the young plants of grace they looked
couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny
Come fill up my cup, etc. With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmar
ket was crammed As if half the West had set tryst to be
hanged; There was spite in each look, there was
fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny
• There are bills beyond Pentland and lands
beyond Forth, If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's
chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thou
sand times three, Will cry hoigh ! for the bonnet of Bonny
Come fill up my cup, etc. • There's brass on the target of barkened
bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles
beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel
shall flash free, At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, etc.
• Away to the hills, to the caves, to the
rocks Ere I own an usurper, I 'll couch with the
fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of
your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet
The Gordon demands of him which
he goes "Where'er shall direct me the shade of
Montrose ! Your Grace in short space sball hear tidings
WHEN FRIENDS ARE MET
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dun
When friends are met o'er merry cheer,
The cares of day are drowned;