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LULLABY ON AN INFANT CHIEF.

O HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight,—
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;

The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo,

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gu lo.

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;

Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may,
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

HELLVELLYN.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was the spot mid the brown meadow heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay,—
Like the course of an outcast abandon'd to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment how oft didst thou

start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him—
Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleam

ing,

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming,
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wilder'd he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hell vellyn and Catchedicam.

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:
ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen,”-

And

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful 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 o' 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',

Sall ride our forest queen,'

But

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aye she loot the tears down fa' For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her both by bower and ha,'

The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

NORA'S VOW.

HEAR What Highland Nora said,
"The earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the earlie's son."

"A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke,
"Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light:

The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the earlie's son.”

"The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast

May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,

Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild swan made;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river:
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel,
But Nora's heart is lost and won,-
She's wedded to the earlie's son!

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