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For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,
Gude faith, I freely bought
A wedding sark of Holland fine,
Wi' silken flowers wrought:
And he gied me a wedding ring,
Which I receiv'd with joy ;
Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing
Like me and Gilderoy.
Wi' mickle joy we spent our prime,
Till we were baith sixteen,
And aft we past the langsome time

Among the leaves sae green;
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,
And sweetly kiss and toy;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair
My handsome Gilderoy.

Oh! that he still had been content
Wi' me to lead his life!
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent
To stir in feats of strife!
And he in many a venturous deed

His courage bauld wad try;
And now this gars mine heart to bleed

For my dear Gilderoy.

And when of me his leave he tuik,
The tears they wet mine ee;

I gave tull him a parting luik,

"My benison gang wi' thee!

God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,
For gane is all my joy;

My heart is rent, sith we maun part,
My handsome Gilderoy !"
My Gilderoy, baith far and near,
Was fear'd in ev'ry toun,
And bauldly bare away the gear
Of many a lawland loun:

Nane eir durst meet him man to man,
He was sae brave a boy;

At length wi' numbers he was tane,
My winsome Gilderoy.

Wae worth the loun that made the laws,
To hang a man for gear,

To reave of life for ox or ass,

For sheep, or horse, or mare:

Had not their laws been made sae strick,
I neir had lost my joy;

Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek
For my dear Gilderoy.

Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,

He mought hae banisht been;

Ah! what sair cruelty is this,

To hang sike handsome men!

To hang the flower o' Scottish land,
Sae sweet and fair a boy;

Nae lady had so white a hand
As thee, my Gilderoy.

Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,

They bound him mickle strong, Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung:

They hung him high aboon the rest,

He was so trim a boy :

Thair dy'd the youth whom I lued best.
My handsome Gilderoy.

Thus having yielded up his breath,
I bare his corpse away;

Wi' tears, that trickled for his death,
I washt his comelye clay;

And siker in a grave sae deep

I laid the dear-lued boy,
And now for evir maun I weep
My winsome Gilderoy.

89. Song. Gilderoy. CAMPBELL. THE last, the fatal hour is come,

That bears my love from me;

I hear the dead note of the drum,
I mark the gallows tree!

The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart;
The trumpet speaks thy name;
And must my Gilderoy depart

To bear a death of shame ?
No bosom trembles for thy doom;
No mourner wipes a tear;
The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
The sledge is all thy bier!
Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad, to part,
When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumphed o'er my heart?
Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!
Ah! little thought I to deplore

These limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound,
Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,

He could not injure you!
A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,
When every mean and cruel eye

Regards my woe with scorn?
Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy !

Then will I seek the dreary mound

That wraps thy mouldering clay;

And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

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Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, And he constantly loved me, although I was poor; [less away, When the sour-looking folks sent me heartI had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. When the road was so dark, and the night was so cold,

And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And he licked me for kindness-my poor dog Tray.

Though my wallet was scant, I remembered

his case,

Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face; But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, And I played a sad lament for my poor dog Tray.

Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind?
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind?
To my sweet native village, so far, far away,
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray.
91. Ye Mariners of England. A Naval Ode.
CAMPBELL.

YE Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!-

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain waves
Her home is on the deep!

With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-

As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn;

Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow
To the fame of your name,

When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

92. Song. Battle of the Baltic. CAMPBELL. Or Nelson and the North, Sings the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth
All the might of Denmark's crown,
And her arms along the deep proudly shore;
By each gun the lighted brand,
In a bold, determined hand,
And the Prince of all the land
Led them on.-

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;
While the sign of battle flew
On the lofty British line :
It was ten of April morn by the chime:
As they drifted on their path,
There was silence deep as death;
And the boldest held his breath
For a time.-

But the might of England flushed
To anticipate the scene;
And her van the fleeter rushed
O'er the deadly space between.'
"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; wnen
each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,
Like the hurricane eclipse
Of the sun.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,
Till a feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back ;—
Their shots along the deep slowly boom:-
Then ceased-and all is wail,
As they strike the shattered sail;
Or, in a conflagration pale,
Light the gloom.—

Outspoke the victor then,

As he hailed them o'er the wave,
"Ye are brothers! ye are men!
And we conquer but to save :-
So peace, instead of death, let us bring.
But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,
With the crews, at England's feet,
And make submission meet
To our king."

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
That he gave her wounds repose;
And the sounds of joy and grief
From her people wildly rose,

As Death withdrew his shades from the day
While the sun looked smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Where the fires of funeral light
Died away.

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Now joy, old England, raise!
For the tidings of thy might,
By the festal cities' blaze,
While the wine cup shines in light ;
And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,
Elsinore !

Brave hearts! to Britain's pride
Once so faithful and so true,
On the deck of fame that died,-
With the gallant, good Riou :*

Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave!
While the billow mournful rolls,
And the mermaid's song condoles,
Singing glory to the souls

Of the brave!

BYRON.

93. Song. Banks of the Rhine.
THE castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly swells
Between the banks which bear the vine,
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees,
And fields which promise corn and wine,
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,
Have strew'd a scene, which I should see
With double joy wert thou with me!
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes,
And hands which offer early flowers,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise;
Above, the frequent feudal towers
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray;
And many a rock which steeply lours,
And noble arch in proud decay,
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers;
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,—
Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine!

I send the lilies given to me;
Though long before thy hand they touch,
I know that they must wither'd be,
But yet reject them not as such;
For I have cherish'd them as dear,
Because they yet may meet thine eye,
And guide thy soul to mine, even here,
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh,
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine,
And offer'd from my heart to thine!
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground,
And all its thousand turns disclose
Some fresher beauty varying round;

The haughtiest breast its wish might bound
Through life to dwell delighted here;
Nor could on earth a spot be found
To nature and to me so dear,

Could thy dear eyes, in following mine,
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native land-Good Night!

A few short hours and he will rise
To give the Morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother Earth.
Deserted is my own good hall;

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong:
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,
I fear not wave nor wind;
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;
For I have from my father gone,
A mother whom I love,
And have no friend, save these alone,
But thee-and one above.
"My father bless'd me fervently,

Yet did not much complain;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again."—
"Enough, enough! my little lad,
Such tears become thine eye :
If I thy guileless bosom had
Mine own would not be dry!
"Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman,
Why dost thou look so pale?

life?

Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?
Or shiver at the gale ?"-
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my
Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.

"My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, Along the bordering lake,

And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make ?"-
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Thy grief let none gainsay;
But I, who am of lighter mood,

Will laugh to flee away.

"For who would trust the seeming sighs Of wife or paramour ?

§ 94. Song. My native Land-adieu. BYRON. Fresh feres will dry the bright-blue eyes

ADIEU, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild seamew.

*Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his despatches.

We late saw streaming o'er. For pleasures past I do not grieve,

Nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear. "And now I'm in the world alone. Upon the wide, wide sea:

But why should I for others groan,
When none will sigh for me?
Perchance my dog will whine in vain,

Till fed by stranger hands;
But long ere I come back again,

He'd tear me where he stands.

"With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

Athwart the foaming brine;

Nor care what land thou bear'st me to,

So not again to mine.
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves!
And, when you fail my sight,
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves!

My native land-Good Night!"

$95. Song. The world is bright before thee. HALLECK.

THE world is bright before thee;
Its summer flowers are thine;
Its calm blue sky is o'er thee;
Thy bosom virtue's shrine;
And thine the sunbeam given

To nature's morning hour:
Pure, warm, as when from heaven
It burst on Eden's bower.

There is a song of sorrow

The death-dirge of the gay-
That tells, ere dawn of morrow,

These charms may melt away;
That sun's bright beam be shaded,
That sky be blue no more,
The summer flowers be faded,
And youth's warm promise o'er.
Believe it not though lonely

Thy evening home may be ;
Though beauty's bark can only

Float on a summer sea;
Though Time thy bloom is stealing,
There's still, beyond his art,
The wild-flower wreath of feeling-
The sunbeam of the heart!

$96. Lamentation for the Death of Celin. LOCKHART. AT the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts are barr'd,

At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a tram

pling heard ;

There is a trampling heard, as of horses treading slow,

And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy sound of woe.

"What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing?"

"A tower is fall'n, a star is set. Alas! alas, for Celin!"

Three times they knock, three times they cry, and wide the doors they throw : Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go: In gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath

the hollow porch,

Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,

For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, for Celin!"

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood, [bles stood; "Twas at the solemn jousting; around the noThe nobles of the land were there, and the ladies bright and fair

Look'd from their lattic'd windows, the haughty sight to share ;

But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are bewailing,

For he was Granada's darling knight. "Alas! alas, for Celin!"

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by

two,

With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiful to view;

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapt in sable veil,

Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up their doleful tale;

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their brotherless bewailing,

And all the people, far and near, cry,-" Alas! alas, for Celin!"

O, lovely lies he on the bier above the purple pall,

The flower of all Granada's youth, the loveliest of them all; [is pale, His dark, dark eyes are clos'd, and his rosy lip The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his

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The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the Moor stands at his door,

One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is weeping sore:

Down to the dust men bow their heads, and ashes black they strew,

Upon their broider'd garments of crimson, green, and blue

Before each gate the bier stands still, then bursts the loud bewailing,

From door and lattice, high and low—” Alas! alas, for Celin!"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she hears the people cry; [eye. Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed 'Twas she that nurs'd him at her breast, that nurs'd him long ago;

She knows not whom they all lament, but soon she well shall knowWith one deep shriek she through doth break, when her ears receive their wailing"Let me kiss my Celin ere I die-Alas! alas, for Celin!"

$97. Song. Gentle river, gentle river: translated from the Spanish. PERCY.

Although the English are remarkable for the number and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain, perhaps, a greater fondness for these old simple rhapsodies of their ancestors than most other nations, yet they are not the only people who have distinguished themselves by compositions of this kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of them, many of which are of the highest merit. They call them, in their language, Romances. Most of them relate to their conflicts with the Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar to that romantic people. The two following are specimens.

GENTLE river, gentle river,

Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore; Many a brave and noble captain

Floats along thy willow'd shore. All beside thy limpid waters,

All beside thy sand so bright,

Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors,
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.
Lords and dukes, and noble princes,
On thy fatal banks were slain :
Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter
All the pride and flow'r of Spain!
There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Full of wounds and glory died;
There the fearless Urdiales

Fell a victim by his side.
Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra
Through their squadrons slow retires;
Proud Seville his native city,

Proud Seville his worth admires.
Close behind, a renegado

Loudly shouts, with taunting cry: "Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ! Dost thou from the battle fly? "Well I know thee, haughty Christian; Long I liv'd beneath thy roof; Oft I've, in the lists of glory,

Seen thee win the prize of proof.
"Well I know thy aged parents,
Well thy blooming bride I know;
Seven years I was thy captive,

Seven years of pain and woe.
"May our Prophet grant my wishes;
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine:
Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow

Which I drank when I was thine!"
Like a lion turns the warrior,

Back he sends an angry glare: Whizzing came the Moorish javelin, Vainly whizzing through the air. Back the hero, full of fury,

Sent a deep and mortal wound: Instant sunk the renegado

Mute and lifeless on the ground. With a thousand Moors surrounded, Brave Saavedra stands at bay : Wearied out, but never daunted, Cold at length the warrior lay

Near him fighting, great Alonzo

Stout resists the paynim bands; From his slaughter'd steed dismounted, Firm intrench'd behind him stands. Furious press the hostile squadron, Furious he repels their rage. Loss of blood at length enfeebles: Who can war with thousands wage? Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows, Close beneath its foot retir'd, Fainting sunk the bleeding hero, And without a groan expir'd.

§ 98. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale: imitated from the Spanish. PERCY.

SOFTLY blow the evening breezes,
Softly fall the dews of night;
Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
Shunning ev'ry glare of light.
In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Whom he loves with flame so pure:
Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,
He a young and noble Moor.
Waiting for th' appointed minute,
Oft he paces to and fro:
Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.
Hope and fear alternate tease him,

Oft he sighs with heartfelt care.
See, fond youth, to yonder window
Softly steps the tim'rous fair.
Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
To the lost benighted swain,
When all silvery bright she rises,
Gilding mountain, grove, and plain.
Lovely seems the sun's full glory

To the fainting seaman's eyes,
When, some horrid storm dispersing,
O'er the wave his radiance flies.
But a thousand times more lovely
To her longing lover's sight,
Steals, half-seen, the beauteous maiden
Through the glimmerings of the night.
Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,
Whispering forth a gentle sigh:
"Alla keep thee, lovely lady!

Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
"Is it true, the dreadful story
Which thy damsel tells my page,
That, seduc'd by sordid riches,

Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age? "An old lord from Antiquera

Thy stern father brings along; But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,

Thus consent my love to wrong? "If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,

Nor thus trifle with my woes;
Hide not then from me the secret
Which the world so clearly knows."
Deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden,
While the pearly tears descend;,

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