Part 2

Six bottles apiece had well wore out the night,

When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight,

Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red,

And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did.

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage,

No longer the warfare ungodly would wage;

A high ruling-elder to wallow in wine!

He left the foul business to folks less divine.

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end;

But who can with Fate and quart-bumpers contend?

Though Fate said--A hero shall perish in light;

So up rose bright Phoebus--and down fell the knight.

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink:

"Craigdarroch, thou'll soar when creation shall sink!

But if thou wouldst flourish immortal in rhyme,

Come--one bottle more--and have at the sublime!

"Thy line, that have struggled for Freedom with Bruce,

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce:

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay;

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day!"

----R. Burns.

LAST MAY A BRAW WOOER

|Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen,

And sair wi' his love he did deave me;

I said there was naething I hated like men,

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe me!

The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me!

He spak o' the darts in my bonie black e'en,

And vow'd for my love he was dying;

I said he might die when he liked for Jean,

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying,

The Lord forgie me for lying!

A weel-stockèd mailen--himsel for the laird--

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers:

I never loot on that I ken'd it, or cared,

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers,

But thought I might hae waur offers.

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less--

The deil tak his taste to gae near her!

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her could bear her,

Guess ye how, the jad! I could bear her.

But a' the niest week, as I fretted wi' care,

I gaed to the tryst o' Dalgarnock,

And wha but my fine fickle lover was there!

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock,

I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock.

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink,

Lest neebors might say I was saucy;

My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie,

And vow'd I was his dear lassie.

I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet,

Gin she had recover'd her hearin',

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet,

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin', a swearin',

But, heavens! how he fell a swearin'!

He begg'd, for gudesake, I wad be his wife,

Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow:

So e'en to preserve the poor body his life,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow,

I think I maun wed him to-morrow.

----R. Burns

JOHN BARLEYCORN

|There was three kings into the east,

Three kings both great and high;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,

Put clods upon his head;

And they hae sworn a solemn oath

John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerfu' spring came kindly on,

And showers began to fall;

John Barleycorn got up again,

And sore surprised them all.

The sultry suns of summer came,

And he grew thick and strong,

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,

That no one should him wrong.

The sober autumn entered mild,

When he grew wan and pale;

His bending joints and drooping head

Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp,

And cut him by the knee;

Then tied him fast upon a cart,

Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,

And cudgell'd him full sore;

They hung him up before the storm,

And turned him o'er and o'er.

They fill'd up a darksome pit

With water to the brim,

They heaved in John Barleycorn,

There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,

To work him further woe,

And still, as signs of life appear'd,

They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, oer a scorching flame,

The marrow of his bones;

But a miller used him worst of all--

He crushed him between two stones.

And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood

And drank it round and round;

And still the more and more they drank,

Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,

Of noble enterprise,

For if you do but taste his blood,

'Twill make your courage rise;

'Twill make a man forget his woe;

'Twill heighten all his joy:

'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,

Though the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,

Each man a glass in hand;

And may his great posterity

Ne'er fail in old Scotland!

----R. Burns.

LADY MARY ANN

|O, Lady Mary Ann

Looks o'er the castle wa',

She saw three bonie boys

Playing at the ba';

The youngest he was

The flower amang them a';

My bonie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

O father! O father!

An' ye think it fit,

We'll send him a year

To the college yet:

We'll sew a green ribbon

Round about his hat,

And that will let them ken

He's to marry yet.

Lady Mary Ann

Was a flower i' the dew,

Sweet was its smell,

And bonie was its hue!

And the langer it blossom'd

The sweeter it grew;

For the lily in the bud

Will be bonier yet.

Young Charlie Cochrane

Was the sprout of an aik;

Bonie and bloomin'

And straught was its make:

The sun took delight

To shine for its sake,

And it will be the brag

O' the forest yet.

The simmer is gane

When the leaves they were green,

And the days are awa'

That we hae seen;

But far better days

I trust will come again,

For my bonie laddie's young,

But he's growin' yet.

----R. Burns.

THE LAIRD O' COCKPEN

|The laird o' Cockpen, he's proud an' he's great,

His mind is ta'en up wi' things o' the State;

He wanted a wife, his braw house to keep,

But favour wi' wooin' was fashions to seek.

Down by the dyke-side a lady did dwell,

At his table head he thought she'd look well,

M'Clish's ae daughter o' Clavers-ha' Lee,

A penniless lass wi' a lang pedigree.

His wig was weel pouther'd and as gude as new,

His waistcoat was white, his coat it was blue;

He put on a ring, a sword, and cock'd hat,

And wha could refuse the laird wi' a' that?

He took the grey mare, and rade cannily,

An' rapp'd at the yett o' Clavers-ha' Lee;

"Gae tell Mistress Jean to come speedily ben,--

She's wanted to speak to the laird o' Cockpen."

Mistress Jean was makin' the elder-flower wine;

"An' what brings the laird at sic a like time?"

She put aff her apron, and on her silk gown,

Her mutch wi' red ribbons, and gaed awa' down.

An' when she cam' ben he bow'd fu' low,

An' what was his errand he soon let her know;

Amazed was the laird when the lady said "Na,"

And wi' a laigh curtsie she turned awa'.

Dumfounder'd was he, nae sigh did he gie,

He mounted his mare--he rade cannily;

An' aften he thought, as he gaed through the glen,

"She's daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen."

----Carolina, Lady Nairne.

_(Stanzas added by Miss Ferrier)_

And now that the laird his exit had made,

Mistress Jean she reflected on what she had said;

"Oh, for ane I'll get better, its waur I'll get ten,

I was daft to refuse the laird o' Cockpen."

Next time that the laird and the lady were seen,

They were gaun arm-in-arm to the kirk on the green;

Now she sits in the ha like a weel-tappit hen,

But as yet there's nae chickens appear'd at Cockpen.

THE LIDDEL BOWER

|Oh, will ye walk the wood, lady?

Or will ye walk the lea?

Or will ye gae to the Liddel Bower,

An' rest a while wi' me?"

"The deer lies in the wood, Douglas,

The wind blaws on the lea;

An' when I gae to Liddel Bower

It shall not be wi' thee."

"The stag bells on my hills, Lady,

The hart but and the hind;

My flocks lie in the Border dale,

My steeds outstrip the wind;

"At ae blast o' my bugle horn,

A thousand tend the ca:

Oh, gae wi' me to Liddel Bower--

What ill can thee befa'?

"D ye mind when in that lonely bower

We met at even tide,

I kissed your young an' rosy lips,

An' wooed you for my bride?

"I saw the blush break on your cheek,

The tear stand in your e'e;

Oh, could I ween, fair Lady Jane,

That then ye lo'ed na me?"

"But sair, sair hae I rued that day,

An' sairer yet may rue;

Ye thought na on my maiden love,

Nor yet my rosy hue.

"Ye thought na' on my bridal bed,

Nor vow nor tear o' mine;

Ye thought upon the lands o' Nith,

An' how they might be thine.

"Away! away! ye fause leman,

Nae mair my bosom wring:

There is a bird within yon bower,

Oh, gin ye heard it sing!"

Red grew the Douglas' dusky cheek,

He turned his eye away,

The gowden hilt fell to his hand;

"What can the wee bird say?"

It hirpled on the bough an' sang,

"Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee,

An' wae's me for the comely knight

That sleeps aneath the tree!

"His cheek lies on the cauld, cauld clay,

Nae belt nor brand has he;

His blood is on a kinsman's spear;

Oh, wae's me, dame, for thee!"

"My yeomen line the wood, lady,

My steed stands at the tree;

An' ye maun dree a dulefu' weird,

Or mount and fly wi' me."

What gars Caerlaverock yeomen ride

Sae fast in belt an' steel?

What gars the Jardine mount his steed,

And scour owre muir and dale?

Why seek they up by Liddel ford,

An down by Tarras linn?

The heiress o' the lands o' Nith,

Is lost to a' her kin.

Oh, lang, lang may her mother greet,

Down by the salt sea faem;

An' lang, lang may the Maxwells look,

Afore their bride come hame.

An' lang may every Douglas rue,

An' ban the deed for aye:--

The deed was done at Liddel Bower

About the break of day.

----J. Hogg.

ELLEN IRWIN; OR, THE BRAES OF KIRTLE

|Fair Ellen Irwin, when she sate

Upon the braes of Kirtle,

Was lovely as a Grecian maid

Adorned with wreaths of myrtle;

Young Adam Bruce beside her lay,

And there did they beguile the day

With love and gentle speeches,

Beneath the budding beeches.

From many knights and many squires

The Bruce had been selected;

And Gordon, fairest of them all,

By Ellen was rejected.

Sad tidings to that noble youth!

For it may be proclaimed with truth,

If Bruce hath loved sincerely,

That Gordon loves as dearly.

But what is Gordons beauteous face,

His shattered hopes and crosses,

To them 'mid Kirtle's pleasant braes,

Reclined on flowers and mosses?

Alas that ever he was born!

The Gordon, couched behind a thorn,

Sees them and their caressing;

Beholds them blest and blessing.

Proud Gordon, maddened by the thoughts

That through his brain are travelling,--

Rushed forth, and at the heart of Bruce

He launched a deadly javelin!

Fair Ellen saw it as it came,

And, stepping forth to meet the same,

Did with her body cover

The youth, her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce's arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus, from the heart of her true-love,

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain

The Gordon, sailed away to Spain;

And fought with rage incessant

Against the Moorish crescent.

But many days, and many months,

And many years ensuing,

This wretched knight did vainly seek

The death that he was wooing:

So coming his last help to crave,

Heart-broken, upon Ellen's grave

His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye, who willingly have heard

The tale I have been telling,

May in Kirkconnel churchyard view

The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen's side the Bruce is laid;

And, for the stone upon its head

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn Hic Jacet!

----W. Wordsworth.

THE SEVEN SISTERS; OR, THE SOLITUDE OF BINNORIE

|Seven daughters had Lord Archibald

All children of one mother:

I could not say in one short day

What love they bore each other.

A garland of seven lilies wrought!

Seven sisters that together dwell;

But he, bold knight as ever fought,

Their father, took of them no thought,

He loved the wars so well.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Fresh blows the wind, a western wind,

And from the shores of Erin,

Across the wave, a rover brave

To Binnorie is steering:

Right onward to the Scottish strand

The gallant ship is borne;

The warriors leap upon the land,

And hark! the leader of the band

Hath blown his bugle horn.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Beside a grotto of their own,

With boughs above them closing,

The seven are laid, and in the shade

They lie like fawns reposing.

But now, upstarting with affright

At noise of man and steed,

Away they fly to left, to right--

Of your fair household, father knight,

Methinks you take small heed!

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Away the seven fair Campbells fly,

And, over hill and hollow,

With menace proud, and insult loud,

The youthful rovers follow.

Cried they, "Your father loves to roam:

Enough for him to find

The empty house when he comes home;

For us your yellow ringlets comb,

For us be fair and kind!"

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

Some close behind, some side by side,

Like clouds in stormy weather,

They run, and cry, "Nay, let us die,

And let us die together."

A lake was near; the shore was steep;

There never foot had been;

They ran, and with a desperate leap

Together plunged into the deep,

Nor ever more were seen.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

The stream that flows out of the lake,

As through the glen it rambles,

Repeats a moan o'er moss and stone,

For those seven lovely Campbells.

Seven little islands, green and bare,

Have risen from out the deep:

The fishers say, those sisters fair

By fairies are all buried there,

And there together sleep.

Sing, mournfully, oh! mournfully,

The solitude of Binnorie!

----W. Wordsworth.

THE FORCE OF PRAYER or, THE FOUNDING OF BOLTON'S PRIORY.

(A Tradition.)

|What is good for a bootless bene?"

With these dark words begins my tale;

And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring

When prayer is of no avail?

"What is good for a bootless bene?"

The falconer to the lady said;

And she made answer, "Endless sorrow!"

For she knew that her son was dead.

She knew it by the falconer's words,

And from the look of the falconer's eye;

And from the love which was in her soul

For her youthful Romilly.

Young Romilly through Barden woods

Is ranging high and low;

And holds a greyhound in a leash,

To let slip upon buck or doe.

The pair have reached that fearful chasm,

How tempting to bestride!

For lordly Wharf is there pent in,

With rocks on either side.

This striding-place is called The Strid,

A name which it took of yore:

A thousand years hath it borne that name,

And shall a thousand more.

And hither is young Romilly come,

And what may now forbid

That he, perhaps for the hundredth time,

Shall bound across The Strid?

He sprang in glee,--for what cared he

That the river was strong, and the rocks were steep?

But the greyhound in the leash hung back,

And checked him in his leap.

The boy is in the arms of Wharf,

And strangled by a merciless force;

For never more was young Romilly seen

Till he rose a lifeless corse.

Now there is stillness in the vale,

And long, unspeaking sorrow:

Wharf shall be to pitying hearts

A name more sad than Yarrow.

If for a lover the lady wept,

A solace she might borrow

From death, and from the passion of death;--

Old Wharf might heal her sorrow.

She weeps not for the wedding-day

Which was to be to-morrow:

Her hope was a farther-looking hope,

And hers is a mothers sorrow.

He was a tree that stood alone,

And proudly did its branches wave;

And the root of this delightful tree

Was in her husband's grave!

Long, long in darkness did she sit,

And her first words were, "Let there be

In Bolton, on the field of Wharf,

A stately priory!"

The stately priory was reared;

And Wharf, as he moved along,

To matins joined a mournful voice,

Nor failed at even-song.

And the lady prayed in heaviness

That looked not for relief!

But slowly did her succour come,

And a patience to her grief.

Oh! there is never sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn, and ask

Of Him to be our Friend!

----W. Wordsworth.

ALBERT GRÆME'S SONG

|It was an English ladye bright,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

And she would marry a Scottish knight,

For Love will still be lord of all.

Blithely they saw the rising sun,

When he shone fair on Carlisle wall;

But they were sad ere day was done,

Though Love was still the lord of all.

Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;

Her brother gave but a flask of wine,

For ire that Love was lord of all.

For she had lands, both meadow and lea,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,

And he swore her death, ere he would see

A Scottish knight the lord of all!

That wine she had not tasted well,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,

For Love was still the lord of all!

He pierced her brother to the heart,

Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall:--

So perish all would true love part,

That Love may still be lord of all!

And then he took the cross divine,

(Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

And died for her sake in Palestine,

So Love was still the lord of all.

Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,

(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,)

Pray for their souls who died for love,

For Love shall still be lord of all!

----W. Scott.

HAROLD'S SONG

|O listen, listen, ladies gay!

No haughty feat of arms I tell;

Soft is the note, and sad the lay,

That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

--"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!

And, gentle ladye, deign to stay,

Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,

Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white:

To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;

The fishers have heard the Water-Sprite,

Whose screams for bode that wreck is nigh.

(_inch_, isle.)

"Last night the gifted Seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round ladye gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:

Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"--

"'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir

To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my ladye-mother there

Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well,

But that my sire the wine will chide,

If 'tis not fill'd by Rosabelle."--

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam;

'Twas broader than the watch-fire's light,

And redder than the bright moon-beam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen,

'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak,

And seen from cavern'd Hawthornden.

Seem'd all on fire that chapel proud,

Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffin'd lie,

Each Baron for a sable shroud,

Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seem'd all on fire, within, around,

Deep sacristy and altar's pale;

Shone every pillar foliage-bound,

And glimmer'd all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high,

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair--

So still they blaze, when fate is nigh

The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold

Lie buried within that proud chapelle;

Each one the holy vault doth hold--

But the sea holds lovely Rosabelle!

And each St. Clair was buried there,

With candle, with book, and with knell;

But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,

The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.

----W. Scott.

LOCHINVAR

Lady Herons Song.

|O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,

Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,

He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.

So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,

There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,

He swam the Eske river where ford there was none;

But ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late:

For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,

Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bride's-men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:

Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,

(For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,)

"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,

Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?--

Lochinvar s'

63

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied;--

Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide;--

And now am I come, with this lost love of mine

To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.

There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,

That would gladly be bride to the young 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 Lochinvar?

----W. Scott.

ALICE BRAND

|Merry it is in the good greenwood,

Where the mavis and merle are singing,

When the deer sweeps by, and the hounds are in cry,

And the hunters horn is ringing.

"O Alice Brand, my native land

Is lost for love of you;

And we must hold by wood and wold,

As outlaws wont to do.

"O Alice, 'twas all for thy locks so bright,

And 'twas all for thine eyes so blue,

That on the night of our luckless flight,

Thy brother bold I slew.

"Now must I teach to hew the beech

The hand that held the glaive,

For leaves to spread our lowly bed,

And stakes to fence our cave.

"And for vest of pall, thy fingers small,

That wont on harp to stray,

A cloak must shear from the slaughter'd deer,

To keep the cold away."--

"O Richard! if my brother died,

'Twas but a fatal chance;

For darkling was the battle tried,

And fortune sped the lance.

"If pall and vair no more I wear,

Nor thou the crimson sheen,

As warm, we'll say, is the russet grey,

As gay the forest green.

"And, Richard, if our lot be hard,

And lost thy native land,

Still Alice has her own Richard,

And he his Alice Brand."

'Tis merry,'tis merry, in good greenwood,

So blithe Lady Alice is singing;

On the beech's pride, and oak's brown side,

Lord Richard's axe is ringing.

Up spoke the moody Elfin King,

Who wonn'd within the hill,--

Like wind in the porch of a ruin'd church,

His voice was ghostly shrill:

"Why sounds yon stroke on beech and oak,

Our moonlight circle's screen?

Or who comes here to chase the deer,

Beloved of our Elfin Queen?

Or who may dare on wold to wear

The fairies' fatal green?

"Up, Urgan, up! to yon mortal hie,

For thou wert christen'd man;

For cross or sign thou wilt not fly,

For mutter'd word or ban.