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Sole friends thy woods and streams were left:
And thus I love them better still ;
Even in extremity of ill.
By Yarrow's streams still let me stray, 30
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chill my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot Stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone, 35
The Bard may draw his parting groan.


“A weary lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine !
To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine !
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, 5
A feather of the blue,
A doublet of the Lincoln green—
No more of me you knew,
My love
No more of me you knew. io

“This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;
But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again.” -
He turn'd his charger as he spake, 15
Upon the river shore;
He gave his bridle-reins a shake,
Said, “Adieu forever more,
My love
And adieu forever more.” 20


WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day;
All the jolly chase is here
With hawk and horse and hunting-spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,

Merrily, merrily mingle they,

“Waken, lords and ladies gay.”

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming,
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay;
Waken, lords and ladies gay.

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay !
Tell them youth and mirth and glee
Run a course as well as we ;

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Time, stern huntsman who can baulk,
Stanch as hound and fleet as hawk;
Think of this and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay !


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 lady, 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 forebode that wreck is nigh.

“Last night the gifted Seer did view
A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;

Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch;
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day 2'

“T is not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my lady-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 't is not filled by Rosabelle.’

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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 moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,
It ruddied all the copse-wood glen;

'T was 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,
Sheath'd 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 Saint 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 Saint 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.

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While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray,

My true love has mounted his steed and away,

Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the
Crown |

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breast-plate to bear, 5

He has placed the steel-cap o'er his long flowing hair,

From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs
down —

Heaven shield the brave Gallant that fights for the
Crown |

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws;
Her King is his leader, her Church is his cause; ic
His watchword is honour, his pay is renown, -
God strike with the Gallant that strikes for the Crown

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all
The round-headed rebels of Westminster Hall;
But tell those bold traitors of London's proud town 15
That the spears of the North have encircled the Crown.

There's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes ;
There's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose !
Would you match the base Skippon, and Massey, and
With the Barons of England, that fight for the Crown 2c

Now joy to the crest of the brave Cavalier
Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear,
Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown,
In a pledge to fair England, her Church, and her Crown.

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