Roamed ere this world was known as one of strife? Comes not an answer from the solitude!
LEANING upon the time-worn parapet
Of this old Roman bridge, that to the bay
Of Forth hath seen thee, Esk, gliding away
From age to age, and spans thee gliding yet,
Before me I behold thy sea-most town,
Yclept in Saxon Chronicles Eske-mouthe,
Its venerable roofs, its spire uncouth,
And Pinkie's field of sorrowful renown.
Scenes of my childhood, manhood, and decline, -
Scenes that my sorrows and my joys have known,
Ye saw my birth, and be my dust your own,
When, as these waters mingle with the sea,
To look upon the light no more is mine,
And time is swallowed in eternity!
ON receiving the submission of the civic authorities, and the surrender of the castle, Prince Charles Edward entered Carlisle on Monday the 18th November, 1745, preceded by one hundred pipers. So far the poetess has sung truly. But she is historically at fault with reference to the "two thousand." So many Highlanders of the Chevalier's army did indeed wade across the Esk, but it was in flight, not in triumph. They waded the Esk on their return to Scotland from an expedition which boded disaster.
a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
Wwr a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We'll up, and we 'll gi'e them a blaw, a blaw,
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
It is ower the border, awa', awa',
O, we'll on, an' we 'll march to Carlisle Ha',
Wi' its yetts, its castel, an' a', an' a'.
O, our brave sodger lads looked braw, an' braw,
Wi' their tartans, their kilts, an' a', an' a',
Wi' bannets an' feathers, an' glitterin' gear,
An' pibrochs soundin' sae sweet an' clear.
Will they a' come hame to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return, our brave Hieland men?
O, second-sichted Sandie looked fu' wae,
An' mithers grat sair whan they marched away.
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
O, wha is the foremaist o' a', o' a'?
Wha is it first follows the blaw, the blaw?
Bonnie Charlie, the king o' us a', us a',
Wi' his hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
His bannet and feather, he 's waving high,
His prancin' steed maist seems to fly;
The nor' wind plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers blaw up an unco flare!
Wi' his hundred pipers, etc.
The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam ower to fell English ground,
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch sound.
Dumfoundered the English were a', were a',
Dumfoundered they a' heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfoundered they a' ran awa', awa',
Frae the hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, etc.
Carolina, Baroness Nairne.
ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.
N Ettrick Forest's mountains dun
"T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noonday solitude;
By many a cairn and trenchéd mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where gray-haired shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.
Along the silver streams of Tweed,
"T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
"T is blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii, armed with fiery spears.
"T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alywn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine,
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the Forest fair.
OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind!
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.
"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the king's deer,
Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.
"A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
O, open, for Our Lady's sake!
A pilgrim's blessing win!
"I'll give you pardons from the Pope,
And reliques from o'er the sea, Or if for these you will not ope, Yet open for charity.
"The hare is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.
"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.
"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which I knock in vain;
The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.
"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want
That's now denied to me."
The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain;
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