But oft, amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again;

For lo, when through the vapors dank
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.

Sir Walter Scott.

ETTRICK.

MURMURING waters!

Have ye no message for me?
Ye come from the hills of the west,
Where his step wanders free.
Did he not whisper my name?
Did he not utter one word,

And trust that its sound o'er the rush
Of thy streams might be heard?

O murmuring waters!

The sounds of the moorlands I hear, The scream of the heron and the eagle, The bell of the deer;

The rustling of heather and fern,

The shiver of grass on the lea,

The sigh of the wind from the hill,
Hast thou no voice for me?

O murmuring waters!

Flow on, ye have no voice for me;

Bear the wild songs of the hills

To the depths of the sea!

Bright stream, from the founts of the west
Rush on with thy music and glee!

O, to be borne to my rest

In the cold waves with thee!

Lady John Scott.

Evan, the River.

EVAN BANKS.

LOW spreads the gloom my soul desires,

SLOW

The sun from India's shore retires;

To Evan banks with temperate ray,
Home of my youth, it leads the day.
O banks to me forever dear!

O stream whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.

And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye!
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline ?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde.

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,

And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to memory brings
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side;
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.

Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost;
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasure bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

Helen Maria Williams.

Fife.

FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.

IFE, an' a' the land about it,

FIFE

Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health an' peace an' plenty glad
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

We'll raise the song on highest key,
Through every grove till echo shout it;

The sweet enchantin' theme shall be,
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

Her braid an' lang extended vales

Are clad wi' corn, a' wavin' yellow;
Her flocks an' herds crown a' her hills;
Her woods resound wi' music mellow.

Her waters pastime sweet afford

To ane an' a' wha like to angle;
The seats o' mony a laird an' lord,
Her plains, as stars the sky, bespangle.

In ilka town an' village gay,

Hark! Thrift her wheel an' loom are usin';
While to an' frae each port an' bay,

See wealthy Commerce briskly cruisin'.

Her maids are frugal, modest, fair,
As lilies by her burnies growin';
An' ilka swain may here repair,

Whase heart wi' virt'ous love is glowin'.

In peace, her sons like lammies mild,
Are lightsome, friendly, an' engagin';
In war they're loyal, bauld, an' wild
As lions roused an' fiercely ragin'.

May auld an' young ha'e meat an' claes;
May wark an' wages aye be plenty;

An' may the sun to latest days

See Fife an' a' her bairnies canty.

Fife, an' a' the land about it,
Fife, an' a' the land about it;

May health an' peace an' plenty glad

Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

Alexander Douglas.

MAGGIE LAUDER.

HA wadna be in love

WHA

Wi' bonnie Maggie Lauder?

A piper met her gaun to Fife,

And speired what was 't they ca'd her. Right scornfully she answered him,

'Begone, you hallaushaker!

Jog on your gate, you bladderskate!
My name is Maggie Lauder."

66

Maggie," quo' he, "and by my bags,
I'm fidgin' fain to see thee;

Sit down by me, my bonnie bird,

In troth I winna steer thee;
For I'm a piper to my trade,
My name is Rob the Ranter;
The lasses loup as they were daft
When I blow up my chanter."

"Piper," quo' Meg, "hae ye your bags,
Or is your drone in order?
If ye be Rob, I've heard of

you,

Live you upo' the Border?
The lasses a', baith far aud near,

Hae heard o' Rob the Ranter;