But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb: Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, ALL Joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me. Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the tree Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. HUNTING SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and nunting spear; Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Louder, louder chant the lay, THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm, There is a voice among the trees That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze, And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the Bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death, Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The spectre with his bloody hand,* Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time is meet to awake the dead! "Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, And on your shores her Norsemen flung? "Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange Nor through the pines with whistling change, "O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in song enroll'd, For Albion's weal in battle bold;- "By all their swords, by all their scars, The wind is hush'd, and still the lake- At the dread voice of other years They owed the conquest to his arm, And then they bound the holy knot That were in chapel there, THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, Beneath his lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good morrow: My arm it is my country's right, Befits the gallant Troubadour." And while he march'd with helm on head The minstrel burden still he sung: E'en when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay : "My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield, Expiring sung th' exulting stave: "My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME.* THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth; CHORUS. Carle, now the king's come! Auld England held him lang and fast; Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray, But, Carle, now the king's come! She's skirling frae the Castle Hill, Carle, now the king's come! "Up, bairns," she cries, " baith great and sma', And busk ye for the weapon shaw! Stand by me and we'll bang them a'! Carle, now the king's come! "Come, from Newbattle's* ancient spires, Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, And match the mettle of your sires, Carle, now the king's come! "You're welcome hame, my Montague ! Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh; I'm missing some that I may rue, Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, "Come, premier duke,‡ and carry doun, But, Carle, now the king's come "Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud;Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood, Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ; Carle, now the king's come! "Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true, "King Arthur's grown a common crier, Carle, now the king's come!" The carline stopp'd; and sure I am, Cogie, now the king's come! Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Scot- Frith of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, anx land, in August, 1822. iously looking for the royal squadron. JAMES MONTGOMERY. JAMES MONTGOMERY was born at Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, November 4, 1771. His parents, who belonged to the sect of Moravians, placed him at school near Leeds, and went as missionaries to the West Indies, where they died. After two unprofitable years at the school, whose discipline was too strict for him, Montgomery ran away. He spent four years in various employments, mainly as clerk, and then (1793) was engaged in the office of the Sheffield Register, for which he soon began to write political articles. In 1794 he started the Sheffield Iris, which he continued to edit till 1825. At the outset of his editorial career he twice suffered imprisonment-first of three months (1795) for printing a ballad which was pronounced sedi tious, and next of six months (1796) for publishing an account of a riot in Sheffield. In 1835 he received a government pension of £150. He died in Sheffield, April 30, 1854. Montgomery published a small volume of poems early in life; but it met with no great success. "The Wanderer of Switzerland" was published in 1806, "The West Indies" in 1809," The World before the Flood" in 1812, and "The Pelican Island, and Other Poems" in 1827. A collected edition of his minor poems was issued in 1851, and of his hymns in 1853. The last named will probably prove the longest lived of all his works. Some of them are sung wherever the language is spoken, and are loved for their rare quality of mingled picturesqueness and piety. MY COUNTRY. THERE is a land of every land the pride, Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around; Man through all ages of revolving time, Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest. ROBERT BURNS. WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song, Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong, His plume, his note, his form, could Burns The blackbird, oracle of sprig, The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom In "auld Kirk Alloway" the owl, He was the wren amid the grove, When in his homely vein; There take thy stand, my spirit-spread The world of shadows at thy feet; And mark how calmly overhead The stars, like saints in glory, meet. While hid in solitude sublime, Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb, All in a moment, crash on crash, Pursues the uproar till it dies; Silence again the darkness seals, The midnight spectre of the moon. Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme Ah! at her touch, these Alpine heights I hold my breath in chill suspense- I breathe again, I freely breathe; Safe on thy banks again I stray; The trance of poesy is o'er, And I am here at dawn of day, Gazing on mountains as before, Where all the strange mutations wrought Yet, O ye everlasting hills! Buildings of God, not made with hands, Whose word performs whate'er He wills, Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands; Can there be eyes that look on you, Till tears of rapture make them dim, By me, when I behold Him not, Be all I ever knew forgot My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold; Transformed to ice, 'twixt earth and sky, On yonder cliff my form be seen, That all may ask, but none reply, What my offence hath been. |