"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!"

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettledrums clashed, and the hors.e.m.e.n rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war notes of Bonnie Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, and fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE SONG OF THE WESTERN MEN.

A good sword and a trusty hand!

A merry heart and true!

King James's men shall understand What Cornish lads can do.

And have they fixed the where and when?

And shall Trelawny die?

Here's twenty thousand Cornish men Will know the reason why!

Out spake their captain brave and bold, A merry wight was he: "If London Tower were Michael's hold, We'll set Trelawny free!

"We'll cross the Tamar, land to land, The Severn is no stay, With one and all, and hand in hand, And who shall bid us nay?

"And when we come to London Wall, A pleasant sight to view, Come forth! come forth! ye cowards all, Here's men as good as you.

"Trelawny he's in keep and hold, Trelawny he may die; But here's twenty thousand Cornish bold Will know the reason why!"

ROBERT S. HAWKER.

JAFFAR.

Jaffar, the Barmecide, the good Vizier, The poor man's hope, the friend without a peer,-- Jaffar was dead, slain by a doom unjust; And guilty Haroun, sullen with mistrust Of what the good, and e'en the bad, might say, Ordained that no man living, from that day, Should dare to speak his name on pain of death.

All Araby and Persia held their breath.

All but the brave Mondeer.--He, proud to show How far for love a grateful soul could go, And facing death for very scorn and grief, For his great heart wanted a great relief, Stood forth in Bagdad, daily in the square Where once had stood a happy home, and there Harangued the tremblers at the scymitar On all they owed to the divine Jaffar.

"Bring me this man," the caliph cried: the man Was brought, was gazed upon. The mutes began To bind his arms. "Welcome, brave cords," cried he; "From bonds far worse Jaffar delivered me; From wants, from shames, from loveless household fears; Made a man's eyes friends with delicious tears; Restored me, loved me, put me on a par With his great self. How can I pay Jaffar?"

Haroun, who felt that on a soul like this The mightiest vengeance could but fall amiss, Now deigned to smile, as one great lord of fate Might smile upon another half as great.

He said, "Let worth grow frenzied if it will; The caliph's judgment shall be master still.

"Go, and since gifts so move thee, take this gem, The richest in the Tartar's diadem, And hold the giver as thou deemest fit."

"Gifts!" cried the friend. He took: and holding it High toward the heavens, as though to meet his star, Exclaimed, "This, too, I owe to thee, Jaffar."

LEIGH HUNT.

LORD OF HIMSELF.

How happy is he born or taught Who serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth his highest skill:

Whose pa.s.sions not his masters are; Whose soul is still prepared for death-- Not tied unto the world with care Of prince's ear or vulgar breath;

Who hath his ear from rumors freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good; Who G.o.d doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend--

This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.

SIR HENRY WOTTON.

THE GOOD GREAT MAN.

How seldom, friend, a good great man inherits Honor or wealth, with all his worth and pains!

It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains.

For shame, dear friend; renounce this canting strain.

What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?

Place, t.i.tles, salary, a gilded chain-- Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?

Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends.

Hath he not always treasures, always friends, The good great man? three treasures--love and light, And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath; And three firm friends, more sure than day and night-- Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

DEATH THE LEVELER.

The glories of our blood and state Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings: Scepter and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still: Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.