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For Gilderoy, that luve of mine,

Thus having yielded up his breath, Gude faith, I freely bought

I bare his corpse away ; A wedding sark of Holland fine,

Wi' tears, that trickled for his death, Wi' silken flowers wrought :

I washt his comelye clay ; And he gied me a wedding ring,

And siker in a grave sae deep Which I receiv'd with joy ;

I laid the dear-lued boy, Nae lad nor lassie eir could sing

And now for evir maun I weep Like me and Gilderoy.

My winsome Gilderoy. Wi’mickle joy we spent our prime,

$ 89. Song. Gilderoy. CAMPBELL. Till we were baith sixteen,

The last, the fatal hour is come, And aft we past the langsome time

That bears my love from me; Among the leaves sae green;

I hear the dead note of the drum,
Aft on the banks we'd sit us thair,

I mark the gallows tree !
And sweetly kiss and toy ;
Wi' garlands gay wad deck my hair

The bell has tolled; it shakes my heart; My handsome Gilderoy.

The trumpet speaks thy name;

And must my Gilderoy depart Oh! that he still had been content

To bear a death of shame ? Wi' me to lead his life!

No bosom trembles for thy doom;
But, ah! his manfu' heart was bent

No mourner wipes a tear ;
To stir in feats of strife!
And he in many a venturous deed

The gallows' foot is all thy tomb,
His courage bauld wad try;

The sledge is all thy bier!
And now this gars mine heart to bleed Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
For my dear Gilderoy.

So soon, so sad, to part,

When first in Roslin's lovely glen
And when of me his leave he tuik,

You triumphed o'er my heart ?
The tears they wet mine ee;
I
gave tull him a parting luik,

Your locks they glittered to the sheen,
My benison gang wi' thee!

Your hunter garb was trim; God speed thee weil, mine ain dear heart,

And graceful was the ribbon green For gane is all my joy;

That bound your manly limb! My heart is rent, sith we maun part,

Ah ! little thought I to deplore My handsome Gilderoy !"

These limbs in fetters bound; My Gilderoy, baith far and

near,

Or hear, upon thy scaffold floor, Was fear'd in ey'ry toun,

The mid

hammer sound, And bauldly bare away the gear

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined Of many a lawland loun:

The guiltless to pursue ; Nane eir durst meet him man to man, My Gilderoy was ever kind, He was sae brave a boy ;

He could not injure you ! At length wi' numbers he was tane,

A long adieu ! but where shall fly
My winsome Gilderoy.

Thy widow all forlorn,
Wae worth the loun that made the laws, When every mean and cruel eye
To hang a man for gear,

Regards my woe with scorn ?
To reave of life for ox or ass,

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears, For sheep, or horse, or mare :

And hate thine orphan boy ; Had not their laws been made sae strick, Alas! his infant beauty wears I neir had lost my joy ;

The form of Gilderoy! Wi' sorrow neir had wat my cheek

Then will I seek the dreary mound For my dear Gilderoy.

That wraps thy mouldering clay ; Giff Gilderoy had done amisse,

And weep and linger on the ground,
He mought hae banisht been ;

And sigh my heart away.
Ah! what sair cruelty is this,
To hang sike handsome men !

0 90. Song. The Harper. CAMPBELL. To hang the flower o' Scottish land, On the green banks of Shannon, when SheeSae sweet and fair a boy;

lah was nigh, Nae lady had so white a hand

No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I; As thee, my Gilderoy.

No harp like my own could so cheerily play, Of Gilderoy sae fraid they were,

And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. They bound him mickle strong,

When, at last, I was forced from my Sheelala Tull Edenburrow they led him thair, And on a gallows hung :

She said, (while the sorrow was big at her They hung him high aboon the rest,

heart,)

{away; He was 80 trim a boy :

“Oh! remember your Sheelah when far, far Thair dy'd the youth whom I lued best, And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog My handsome Gilderoy.

Tray."

to part,

his case,

each gun

Poor dog! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, ø 92. Song. Battle of the Baltic. CAMPBELL. And he constantly loved me, although I was

Of Nelson and the North, poor ;

[less away, When the sour-looking folks sent me heart- Sings the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray.

All the might of Denmark's crown, When the road was so dark, and the night was And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; so cold,

By each gun the lighted brand,
And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, In a bold, determined hand,
How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray, And the Prince of all the land
And he licked me for kindness—my poor dog Led them on.-
Tray.

Like leviathans afloat,
Though my wallet was scant, I remembered

Lay their bulwarks on the brine;

While the sign of battle flew
Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face;

On the lofty British line :
But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, it was ten of April morn by the chime:
And I played a sad lament for my poor dog As they drifted on their path,
Tray,

There was silence deep as death;
Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind? And the boldest held his breath
Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind? For a time.-
To

my sweet native village, so far, far away, But
I can never more return with my poor dog Tray. To anticipate the scene;

might of England flushed 091. Ye Mariners of England. A Naval Ode. And her van the fleeter rushed

CAMPBELL. O'er the deadly space between. YE Mariners of England !

|“ Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,

From its adamantine lips The battle and the breeze!

Spread a death-shade round the ships, Your glorious standard launch again

Like the hurricane eclipse To match another foe!

of the sun. And sweep through the deep,

Again ! again ! again! While the stormy tempests blow;

And the havoc did not slack, While the battle rages loud and long, Till a feeble cheer the Dane And the stormy tempests blow.

To our cheering sent us back ;The spirits of your fathers

Their shots along the deep slowly boom :Shall start from every wave!

Then ceased-and all is wail,
For the deck it was their field of fame, As they strike the shattered sail;
And Ocean was their grave:

Or, in a conflagration pale,
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Light the gloom.-
Your manly hearts shall glow,

Outspoke the victor then,
As ye sweep through the deep,

As he hailed them o'er the wave, While the stormy tempests blow;

“ Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! While the battle rages loud and long,

And we conquer but to save :And the stormy tempests blow.

So peace, instead of death, let us bring. Britannia needs no bulwark,

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet, No towers along the steep;

With the crews, at England's feet, Her march is o'er the mountain waves

And make submission meet
Her home is on the deep!

To our king."-
With thunders from her native oak,
She quells the floods below-

Then Denmark blessed our chief,
As they roar on the shore,

That he gave her wounds repose ; When the stormy tempests blow;

And the sounds of joy and grief When the battle rages loud and long,

From her people wildly rose, And the stormy tempests blow.

As Death withdrew his shades from the day The meteor flag of England

While the sun looked' smiling bright Shall yet terrific burn;

O'er a wide and woeful sight,
Till danger's troubled night depart,

Where the fires of funeral light
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean warriors!

Now joy, old England, raise !
Our song and feast shall flow

For the tidings of thy might,
To the fame of your name,

By the festal cities' blaze,
When the storm has ceased to blow; While the wine cup shines in light;
When the fiery fight is heard no more, And yet, amidst that joy and uproar,
And the storm has ceased to blow.

Let us think of them that sleep,

Died away.

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Full many a fathom deep,

Yon sun that sets upon the sea
By thy wild and stormy steep,

We follow in his flight;
Elsinore !

Farewell awhile to him and thee,
Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride

My native land-Good Night !
Once so faithful and so true,

A few short hours and he will rise
On the deck of fame that died, -

To give the Morrow birth;
With the gallant, good Riou :*

And I shall hail the main and skies,
Soft sigh the winds of heaven o'er their grave! But not my mother Earth.
While the billow mournful rolls,

Deserted is my own good hall;
And the mermaid's song condoles,

Its hearth is desolate;
Singing glory to the souls

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
Of the brave ! -

My dog howls at the gate.

“ Come hither, hither, my little page! 093. Song. Banks of the Rhine. Byron.

Why dost thou weep and wail ?
THE castled crag of Drachenfels

Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Or tremble at the gale ?
Whose breast of waters broadly swells But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Between the banks which bear the vine, Our ship is swift and strong :
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
And fields which promise corn and wine, More merrily along."
And scatter'd cities crowning these,
Whose far white walls along them shine,

“ Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, Have strew'd a scene, which I should see

I fear not wave nor wind;
With double joy wert thou with me!

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I

Am sorrowful in mind;
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, For I have from my father gone,
And hands which offer early flowers,

A mother whom I love,
Walk smiling o'er this paradise ;

And have no friend, save these alone,
Above, the frequent feudal towers

But thee-and one above.
Through green leaves lift their walls of gray ;
And many a rock which steeply lours,

“ My father bless'd me fervently,
And noble arch in proud decay,

Yet did not much complain ;
Look o'er this vale of vintage-bowers ;

But sorely will my mother sigh
But one thing want these banks of Rhine,-

Till I come back again.”
Thy gentle' hand to clasp in mine!

“Enough, enough! my little lad,

Such tears become thine eye:
I send the lilies given to me;

If I thy guileless bosom had
Though long before thy hand they touch,

Mine own would not be dry!
I know that they must wither'd be,
But yet reject them not as such;

“ Come hither, hither, my stanch yeoman, For I have cherish'd them as dear,

Why dost thou look so pale ?
Because they yet may meet thine eye, Or dost thou dread a French foeman ?
And guide thy soul to mine, even here, Or shiver at the gale ?"-
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, “ Deem'st thou I tremble for my life?
And know'st them gather'd by the Rhine, Sir Childe, I'm not so weak;
And offer'd from my heart to thine !

But thinking on an absent wife

Will blanch a faithful cheek.
The river nobly foams and flows,
The charm of this enchanted ground, “My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall,
And all its thousand turns disclose

Along the bordering lake,
Some fresher beauty varying round; And when they on their father call,
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound What answer shall she make ?

Through life to dwell delighted here; “ Enough, enough, my yeoman good,
Nor could on earth a spot be found

Thy grief let none gainsay;
To nature and to me so dear,

But I, who am of lighter mood,
Could thy dear eyes, in following mine, Will laugh to flee away.
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine!

“ 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

We late saw streaming o'er.
Fades o'er the waters blue;

For pleasures past I do not grieve,
The night-winds sigh, the brcakers roar,

Nor perils gathering near;
And shrieks the wild seamew.

My greatest grief is that I leave

No thing that claims a tear.
* Captain Riou, justly entitled the gallant and the « And now I'm in the world alone,
good, by Lord Nelson, when he wrote home his de-
spatches.

Upon the wide, wide sea :

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But why should I for others groan,

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around When none will sigh for me?

is wailing, Perchance my dog will whine in vain, For all have heard the misery. “Alas! alas, Till fed by stranger hands ;

for Celin !" But long ere I come back again, He'd tear me where he stands.

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood,

[bles stood; “ With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go

'Twas at the solemn jousting; around the noAthwart the foaming brine;

The nobles of the land were there, and the laNor care what land thou bear'st me to,

dies bright and fair So not again to mine.

Look'd from their lattic'd windows, the haughWelcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves !

ty sight to share ; And, when you fail my sight,

But now the nobles all lament, the ladies are Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves !

bewailing, My native land-Good Night !”

For he was Granada’s darling knight. “Alas!

alas, for Celin!" $95. Song. The world is bright before thee.

HALLECK.

Before him ride his vassals, in order two by The world is bright before thee;

two, Its summer flowers are thine;

With ashes on their turbans spread, most pitiIts calm blue sky is o'er thee;

ful to view ; Thy bosom virtue's shrine ;

Behind him his four sisters, each wrapt in saAnd thine the sunbeam given

ble veil, To nature's morning hour :

Between the tambour's dismal strokes take up Pure, warm, as when from heaven

their doleful tale; It burst on Eden's bower.

When stops the muffled drum, ye hear their There is a song of sorrow

brotherless bewailing, The death-dirge of the gay

And all the people, far and near, cry," Alas ! That tells, ere dawn of morrow,

alas, for Celin!" These charms may melt away; That sun's bright beam be shaded,

O, lovely lies he on the bier above the purple That sky be blue no more,

pall, The summer flowers bę faded,

The lower of all Granada's youth, the love

liest of them all; And youth's warm promise o'er,

[is pale,

His dark, dark eyes are clos'd, and his rosy lip Believe it not : though lonely

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his Thy evening home may be ;

burnish'd mail, Though beauty's bark can only

And evermore the hoarse tambour breaks in Float on a summer sea;

upon their wailing, Though Time thy bloom is stealing,

Its sound is like no earthly sound,—" Alas! There's still, beyond his art,

alas, for Celin!" The wild-flower wreath of feelingThe sunbeam of the heart!

The Moorish maid at the lattice stands, the

Moor stands at his door, 0 96. Lamentation for the Death of Celin, One maid is wringing of her hands, and one is

LOCKHART. weeping sore : At the gate of old Granada, when all its bolts Down to the dust men bow their heads, and are barr'd,

ashes black they strew, At twilight, at the Vega gate, there is a tram- Upon their broider'd garments of crimson, pling heard ;

green, and blueThere is a trampling heard, as of horses tread- Before each gate the bier stands still, then ing slow,

bursts the loud bewailing, And a weeping voice of women, and a heavy From door and lattice, high and low" Alas! sound of woe.

alas, for Celin!” What tower is fall'n, what star is set, what chief come these bewailing ?"

An old, old woman cometh forth, when she A tower is fall’n, a star is set. Alas! alas,

hears the people cry;

[eye. for Celin!"

Her hair is white as silver, like horn her glazed

'Twas she that nurs'd him at her breast, that Three times they knock, three times they cry,

nurs'd him long ago ; and wide the doors they throw; She knows not whom they all lament, but Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go: soon she well shall knowIn gloomy lines they mustering stand beneath With one deep shriek she through doth break, the hollow porch,

when her ears receive their wailingEach horseman grasping in his hand a black “Let me kiss my Celin ere I die-Alas! alas, and flaming torch ;

for Celin!"

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Near him fighting, great Alonzo 097. Song. Gentle river, gentle river: trans

Stout resists the paynim bands;
lated from the Spanish. PERCY.

From his slaughter'd steed dismounted,
Although the English are remarkable for the number Firm intrench'd behind him stands.

and variety of their ancient ballads, and retain,
perhaps, a greater fondness for these old simple Furious press the hostile squadron,
rhapsodies of their ancestors than most other na- Furious he repels their rage.
tions, yet they are not the only people who have Loss of blood at length enfeebles :
distinguished themselves by compositions of this
kind. The Spaniards have great multitudes of

Who can war with thousanus wage ?
them, many of which are of the highest merit. Where yon rock the plain o'ershadows,
They call them, in their language, Romances.
Most of them relate to their conflicts with the

Close beneath its foot retir'd,
Moors, and display a spirit of gallantry peculiar Fainting sunk the bleeding hero,
to that romantic people. The two following are And without a groan expir'd.

specimens.
GENTLE river, gentle river,

0 98. Alcanzor and Zaida, a Moorish Tale : Lo, thy streams are stain'd with gore;

imitated from the Spanish. PERCY. Many a brave and noble captain

Softly blow the evening breezes,
Floats along thy willow'd shore.

Softly fall the dews of night;
All beside thy limpid waters,

Yonder walks the Moor Alcanzor,
All beside thy sand so bright,

Shunning ev'ry glare of light.
Moorish chiefs, and Christian warriors,

In yon palace lives fair Zaida,
Join'd in fierce and mortal fight.

Whom he loves with flame so pure :
Lords and dukes, and noble princes,

Loveliest she of Moorish ladies,
On thy fatal banks were slain :

He a young and noble Moor.
Fatal banks, that gave to slaughter

Waiting for th' appointed minute,
All the pride and flow'r of Spain!

Oft he paces to and fro:
There the hero, brave Alonzo,

Stopping now, now moving forwards,
Full of wounds and glory died ;

Sometimes quick, and sometimes slow.
There the fearless Urdiales

Hope and fear alternate tease him,
Fell a victim by his side.

Oft he sighs with heartfelt care,
Lo! where yonder Don Saavedra

See, fond youth, to yonder window
Through their squadrons slow retires ;

Softly steps the tim'rous fair.
Proud Seville his native city,

Lovely seems the moon's fair lustre
Proud Seville his worth admires.

To the lost benighted swain,
Close behind, a renegado

When all silvery bright she rises,
Loudly shouts, with taunting cry:

Gilding mountain, grove, and plain,
Yield thee, yield thee, Don Saavedra ! Lovely seems the sun's full glory
Dost thou from the battle fly?

To the fainting seaman's eyes,
« Well I know thee, haughty Christian ;

When, some horrid storm dispersing,

O'er the wave his radiance flies.
Long I liv'd beneath thy roof;
Oft I've, in the lists of glory,

But a thousand times more lovely
Seen thee win the prize of proof.

To her longing lover's sight,
" Well I know thy aged parents,

Steals, half-seen, the beauteous maiden Well thy blooming bride I know;

Through the glimmerings of the night. even years I was thy captive,

Tip-toe stands the anxious lover,
Seven years of pain and woe.

Whispering forth a gentle sigh :

“ Alla keep thee, lovely lady!
“ May our Prophet grant my wishes ;
Haughty chief, thou shalt be mine :

Tell me, am I doom'd to die?
Thou shalt drink that cup of sorrow

“ Is it true, the dreadful story
Which I drank when I was thine!"

Which thy damsel tells my page,
Like a lion turns the warrior,

That, seduc'd by sordid riches,
Back he sends an angry glare:

Thou wilt sell thy bloom to age ?
Whizzing came the Moorish javelin,

“ An old lord from Antiquera
Vainly whizzing through the air.

Thy stern father brings along;
Back the hero, full of fury,

But canst thou, inconstant Zaida,

Thus consent my love to wrong?
Sent a deep and mortal wound :
Instant sunk the renegado

“ If 'tis true, now plainly tell me,
Mute and lifeless on the ground.

Nor thus trifle with my woes ;

Hide not then from me the secret
With a thousand Moors surrounded,
Brave Saavedra stands at bay :

Which the world so clearly knows.".
Wearied out, but never daunted,

Deeply sigh'd the conscious maiden,
Cold at length the warrior laya

While the pearly tears descend ;

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