THOMAS CAMPBELL.

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 morningtide, 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.

EXILE OF ERIN.

There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill; For his country he sighed, when at twilight repairing To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill: But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean, Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh.

Sad is my fate! said the heartbroken stranger; The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee, But I have no refuge from famine and danger, A home and a country remain not to me.

Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken, In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten sh.o.r.e; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken, And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!

Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace--where no perils can chase me?

Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood?

Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?

Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?

And where is the bosom friend clearer than all?

Oh! my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure, Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure, But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeathes thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy field,--sweetest isle of the ocean!

And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion,-- Erin mavournin--Erin go bragh!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

SONG.

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtain for my head, My lullaby the warder's tread, Far, far from love and thee, Mary; To-morrow eve, more stilly laid, My couch may be my b.l.o.o.d.y plaid, My vesper song thy wail, sweet maid!

It will not waken me, Mary!

I may not, dare not, fancy now The grief that clouds thy lovely brow; I dare not think upon thy vow, And all it promised me, Mary.

No fond regret must Norman know; When bursts Clan-Alpine on the foe, His heart must be like bended bow, His foot like arrow free, Mary.

A time will come with feeling fraught!

For, if I fall in battle fought, Thy hapless lover's dying thought Shall be a thought on thee, Mary: And if returned from conquered foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

_From "The Lady of The Lake."_

THE BANKS O' DOON.

(SECOND VERSION.)

Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Doon, How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; How can ye chant, ye little birds, And I sae weary, fu' o' care!

Thou'll break my heart, thou warbling bird, That wantons thro' the flowering thorn: Thou minds me o' departed joys, Departed--never to return!

Aft hae I roved by bonnie Doon, To see the rose and woodbine twine; And ilka bird sang o' its luve, And fondly sae did I o' mine.

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, Fu' sweet upon its th.o.r.n.y tree; And my fause lover stole my rose, But, ah! he left the thorn wi' me.

ROBERT BURNS.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

LADY CLARE.