[77] The song of Lady Margaret in the first canto of "The Lady of the Lake."

HAIL TO THE CHIEF WHO IN TRIUMPH ADVANCES![78]

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances!

Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine!

Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!

Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gaily to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shout back agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade; Moor'd in the rifted rock Proof to the tempest shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Proudly our pibroch has thrill'd in Glen Fruin, And Bannochar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch Lomond lie dead on her side.

Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-Glen Shake when they hear agen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

Row, va.s.sals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars for the ever-green pine!

Oh, that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!

O that some seedling gem, Worthy such n.o.ble stem, Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!

[78] The "boat song" in the second canto of "The Lady of the Lake." It may be sung to the air of "The Banks of the Devon."

THE HEATH THIS NIGHT MUST BE MY BED.[79]

The heath this night must be my bed, The bracken curtains 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 the 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 return'd from conquer'd foes, How blithely will the evening close, How sweet the linnet sing repose To my young bride and me, Mary!

[79] Song of Norman in "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

THE IMPRISONED HUNTSMAN.[80]

My hawk is tired of perch and hood, My idle greyhound loathes his food, My horse is weary of his stall, And I am sick of captive thrall; I wish I were as I have been, Hunting the hart in forest green, With bended bow and bloodhound free, For that 's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime, Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl, Inch after inch, along the wall.

The lark was wont my matins ring, The sable rook my vespers sing: These towers, although a king's they be, Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise And sun myself in Ellen's eyes, Drive the fleet deer the forest through, And homeward wend with evening dew; A blithesome welcome blithely meet And lay my trophies at her feet, While fled the eve on wing of glee-- That life is lost to love and me!

[80] "The Lady of the Lake," canto sixth.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.[81]

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain, When our need was the sorest.

The font re-appearing, From the rain-drops shall borrow; But to us comes no cheering, To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper Takes the ears that are h.o.a.ry, But the voice of the weeper Wails manhood in glory.

The autumn winds rushing Wafts the leaves that are searest, But our flower was in flushing When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the corrie, Sage counsel in c.u.mber, Red hand in the foray, How sound is thy slumber!

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and for ever.

[81] "The Lady of the Lake," canto third.

A WEARY LOT IS THINE, FAIR MAID.[82]

"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, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green, No more of me ye knew, my love!

No more of me ye knew.

"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, Upon the river sh.o.r.e, He gave his bridle-reins a shake, Said, "Adieu for evermore, my love!

And adieu for evermore."