My Doctors, look that you agree,
Cure a' the town without a fee;
My Lawyers, dinna pike a plea-

Carle, now the King's come!

"Come forth each sturdy Burgher's bairn,
That dints on wood or clanks on airn,
That fires the o'en, or winds the pirn-
Carle, now the King's come!

"Come forward with the Blanket Blue,
Your sires were loyal men and true,
As Scotland's foemen oft might rue-
Carle, now the King's come!

"Scots downa loup, and rin, and rave, We're steady folks and something grave,

"Kind cummer, Leith, ye've been mis-set, But dinna be upon the fretYe'se hae the handsel of him yet,

Carle, now the King's come!

"My daughters, come with een sae blue, Your garlands weave, your blossoms strew; He ne'er saw fairer flowers than you— Carle, now the King's come!

"What shall we do for the propine-
We used to offer something fine,
But ne'er a groat's in pouch of mine-
Carle, now the King's come!

"O tell me, Harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and woe,
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun-deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle, that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"

"No, not to these, for they have rest,-
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day,

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

"Their flag was furl'd, and mute their drum,
The very household dogs were dumb,
Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,

To tend her kindly housewifery.
"The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

LOCHINVAR.

The bride kiss'd the goblet: the knight took it up,

He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the

cup.

She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,

With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar,"Now tread we a measure!" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did
fume,

And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""Twere better by far,

To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,
Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Loch-
invar!

HYMN OF THE HEBREW MAID.1

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,

Out from the land of bondage came, Her father's God before her moved,

An awful guide in smoke and flame. By day, along the astonish'd lands

The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.

1 This song of Rebecca's, from "Ivanhoe," was a great favourite with the American poet Fitz-Greene Halleck, and with Professor Wilson, who considered it a perfect gem, in which dignity, pathos, and a religious spirit, at once pure and fervid, are admirably combined.-ED.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were?

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,
How to the minstrel's skill reply!
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,
To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.1

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen

But aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilfu' 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 aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye sall not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair; Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen "

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

MACGREGOR'S GATHERING.

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae, And the clan has a name that is nameless by day; Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach, Gather, gather, gather, &c.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo! Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach! Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach! &c.

Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,

Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;

1 The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others were written for Albyn's Anthology.

We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach! Landless, landless, landless, &c.

But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord, Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword; Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach! Courage, courage, courage, &c.

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles, Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!

Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,

Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever! Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach! Come then, come then, come then, &c.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,

O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer, And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt! Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Gather, gather, gather, &c.

HAIL TO THE CHIEF.

(FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.)

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!

Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen

Sends our shout back agen,
'Roderigh1 Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on
the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moor'd in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied;

1 Black Roderick, the descendant of Alpine.

Sleep! the deer is in his den;

Sleep! thy hounds are by thee lying; Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,

How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.

SONG.

(FROM THE PIRATE.)
Love wakes and weeps
While Beauty sleeps!

O for music's softest numbers,
To prompt a theme,

For Beauty's dream,

Soft as the pillow of her slumbers!

Through groves of palm
Sigh gales of balm,

Fire-flies on the air are wheeling;
While through the gloom

Comes soft perfume,

The distant beds of flowers revealing.

O wake and live!
No dream can give

A shadow'd bliss the real excelling;
No longer sleep,
From lattice peep,
And list the tale that love is telling!

THE HEATH THIS NIGHT.

(FROM THE LADY OF THE LAKE.)
The heath this night must be my bed,
The bracken curtain for my head,
My lullaby the warder's tread,

Far, far, from love and thee, Mary;
To-morrow eve, more stilly laid,
My couch may be my bloody plaid,
My vesper song, thy wail, sweet maid!
It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now
The grief that clouds thy lovely brow,
I dare not think upon thy vow,

And all it promised me, Mary.
No fond regret must Norman know;
When bursts Clan Alpine on the foe,
His heart must be like bended bow,
His foot like arrow free, Mary.