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THE DREAM OF ARGYLE.1

EARTHLY arms no more uphold him,
On his prison's stony floor,
Waiting death in his last slumber,
Lies the doomed MacCallum More.

And he dreams a dream of boyhood;
Rise again his heathery hills,
Sound again the hound's long baying,
Cry of moor-fowl, laugh of rills.

Now he stands amidst his clansmen
In the low, long banquet-hall,
Over grim, ancestral armor
Sees the ruddy firelight fall.

Once again, with pulses beating,
Hears the wandering minstrel tell
How Montrose on Inverary

Thief-like from his mountains fell.

Down the glen, beyond the castle,
Where the linn's swift waters shine,
Round the youthful heir of Argyle

Shy feet glide and white arms twine.

1 Archibald Campbell, ninth Earl of Argyle. He fought for the royal cause at Dunbar in 1650, and in 1663 was restored to his earldom and estates. Being required to take the "Test" in 1681 he declined unless he could make a reservation in favor of the Protestant faith. For this he was condemned to death and obliged to flee the country. He returned in 1685, was taken prisoner and executed, as his father had been before him. He is said to have slept soundly a few hours before his execution.

Fairest of the rustic dancers,

Blue-eyed Effie smiles once more, Bends to him her snooded tresses, Treads with him the grassy floor.

Now he hears the pipes lamenting,
Harpers for his mother mourn,
Slow, with sable plume and pennon,
To her cairn of burial borne.

Then anon his dreams are darker,
Sounds of battle fill his ears,
And the pibroch's mournful wailing
For his father's fall he hears.

Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes
Wail in concert for the dead,
And Loch Awe's deep waters murmur
For the Campbell's glory fled!

Fierce and strong the godless tyrants
Trample the apostate land,

While her poor and faithful remnant
Wait for the avenger's hand.

Once again at Inverary,

Years of weary exile o'er,

Armed to lead his scattered clansmen, Stands the bold MacCallum More.

Once again to battle calling

Sound the war-pipes through the glen; And the court-yard of Dunstaffnage

Rings with tread of armed men.

All is lost! the godless triumph,
And the faithful ones and true
From the scaffold and the prison
Covenant with God anew.

On the darkness of his dreaming
Great and sudden glory shone;
Over bonds and death victorious
Stands he by the Father's throne

From the radiant ranks of martyrs
Notes of joy and praise he hears,
Songs of his poor land's deliverance
Sounding from the future years.

Lo, he wakes! but airs celestial
Bathe him in immortal rest,
And he sees with unsealed vision
Scotland's cause with victory blest.

Shining hosts attend and guard him
As he leaves his prison door;

And to death as to a triumph
Walks the great MacCallum More!
ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER.1

BOOT AND SADDLE.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!
Rescue my castle before the hot day
Brightens to blue from its silvery gray,

Chorus. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

1 ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER, sister of the poet, John G. Whittier. See page 322.

Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say;
Many 's the friend there will listen and pray,
16 God's luck to gallants that strike up the lay,
Chorus. 66 'Boot, saddle, to horse, and away

16

Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay,

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Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away

Who laughs,
Chorus.

Who? my wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!" I've better counsellors; what counsel they?

Chorus.

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"Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ROBERT BROWNING.

THE NORMAN BARON.

In his chamber, weak and dying,
Was the Norman baron lying;
Loud, without, the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook.

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal and retainer,

And the lands his sires had plundered,
Written in the Doomsday Book.

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and pater-noster,

From the missal on his knee;

And, amid the tempest pealing,

Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells, that from the neighboring kloster Rang for the Nativity.

In the hall, the serf and vassal

Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels and the waits ;

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle-gates.

Till at length the lays they chanted
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,
Where the monk, with accents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear.

Tears upon his eyelids glistened,
As he paused a while and listened,
And the dying baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear.

4 Wassail for the kingly stranger
Born and cradled in a manger!
King, like David, priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"

And the lightning showed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering baron,
"Miserere, Domine!"

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