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JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Why weep ye by the tide, ladye-
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride;
And ye shall be his bride, ladye,
Sae comely to be seen→

But

ay

she loot the tears down fa

For Jock of Hazeldean.

Now let this wilful grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale,
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale:
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen-
But ay she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

A chain of gold ye shall not lack,

Nor braid to bind

your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you the foremost of them a',
Shall ride our forest queen-

But ay she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair,

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And knight and dame

are there:

They sought her both by bower and ha',

The ladye was not seen-
She's o'er the border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean..

THE HAMEWARD SONG.

HUGH AINSLIE.

VOL. IV.

Each whirl of the wheel,

Each step brings me nearer
The hame of my youth-
Every object grows dearer.
Thae hills and thae huts,

And thae trees on that green,
Losh! they glowre in my face
Like some kindly auld frien'.

E'en the brutes they look social

As gif they would crack,
And the sang of the bird

Seems to welcome me back.
O, dear to our hearts

Is the hand that first fed us,
And dear is the land

And the cottage that bred us.

And dear are the comrades

With whom we once sported,

And dearer the maiden

Whose love we first courted:

Joy's image may perish,

E'en grief die away,

But the scenes of our youth
Are recorded for ay.

AWAKE, MY LOVE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;

Or birds upon the boughs awake,

Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,

Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon, And from her home by Preston burn

Came forth, the rival light of morn.

The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush—
The gold-spink answered from the bush-
The plover, fed on heather crop,

Call'd from the misty mountain top.

'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery grey,

To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-

To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark?

Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue

The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love—
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE POET'S MORNING.

JAMES HOGG.

Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!
Over gorse, green broom, and braken,
From her sieve of silken blue,
Dawning sifts her silver dew;
Hangs the emerald on the willow,
Lights her lamp below the billow,
Bends the brier and branchy braken—
Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken!

Waken, drowsy slumberer, waken! Deep the morn her draught has taken Of the babbling rivulet sheen,

Far beyond the Ochel green;

From her

gauzy veil on high,

Trills the laverock's melody;

Round and round, from glen and grove, Pour a thousand hymns to love.

The quail harps loud amid the clover, From the mountain whirrs the plover; Bat has hid, and heath-cock crowed, Courser neigh'd, and cattle lowed;

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