One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached 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 ! Sir Walter Scott.

147

THE FUGITIVES

THE waters are flashing,
The white hail is dashing,
The lightnings are glancing,
The hoar-spray is dancing--
Away!

The whirlwind is rolling,

The thunder is tolling,

The forest is swinging,
The minster-bells ringing-
Come away!

The earth is like ocean,
Wreck-strewn and in motion;
Bird, beast, man and worm,
Have crept out of the storm-
Come away!

'Our boat has one sail,
And the helmsman is pale;
A bold pilot, I trow,

Who should follow us now!'-
Shouted he.

And she cried: 'Ply the oar;
Put off gaily from shore!'-
As she spoke, bolts of death,
Mixed with hail, specked their path
O'er the sea.

And from isle, tower and rock,
The blue beacon-cloud broke:
And, though dumb in the blast,
The red cannon flashed fast
From the lee.

'And, fearest thou, and fearest thou? And, seest thou, and hearest thou? And, drive we not free

O'er the terrible sea,
I and thou?'

One boat-cloak did cover
The loved and the lover;
Their blood beats one measure,
They murmur proud pleasure
Soft and low;

While around the lashed ocean,
Like mountains in motion,
Is withdrawn and uplifted,
Sunk, shattered, and shifted
To and fro.

In the court of the fortress
Beside the pale portress,

Like a bloodhound well beaten
The bridegroom stands, eaten
By shame.

On the topmost watch-turret,
As a death-boding spirit,
Stands the grey tyrant father;
To his voice the mad weather
Seems tame;

And, with curses as wild
As e'er clung to child,
He devotes to the blast
The best, loveliest, and last
Of his name.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

148

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

'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 of 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 of 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 of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmered 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 of Hazeldean.

Sir Walter Scott.

149

THE OUTLAW'S SONG

(Rokeby.)

OH, Brignall banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton Hall,

Beneath the turrets high,

A maiden on the castle wall

Was singing merrily,—

'Oh, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town,

Thou first must guess what life lead we,
That dwell by dale and down?

And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.

'I read you, by your bugle-horn,
And by your palfrey good,
I read you for a ranger sworn,
To keep the king's greenwood.'
'A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 'tis at peep of light;

His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night.'
Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!

'With burnished brand and musketoon, So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum.'

'I list no more the tuck of drum,
No more the trumpet hear;
But when the beetle sounds his hum,
My comrades take the spear.