"My house is ever supplied with cheer,
But my daughter lieth upon her bier."
A shadow over the horsemen fell,
Each wrapped in thoughts he could never tell;
And silently one by one they crept
To the darkened room where the maiden slept.
The golden hair was rippling low
Over a forehead pure as snow,
And the little hands were idly pressed,
Clasping a cross to the pulseless breast.
"I loved thee ere the death-chill lay
On thee, sweet child," and one turned away.
"I would have loved thee," the second said,
"Hadst thou learned to love me, and lived to wed."
"I loved thee ever, I love thee now,"
The last one cried as he kissed her brow,
"In the heaven to come our souls shall wed,
I have loved thee living, I love thee dead."
Then silently out from the oaken door
Three horsemen passed to return no more.
THE BATTLE OF “BOTHWELL BRIG.”
BY ALLAN CURR.
[A Lay of the Covenanters.]
'Twas on a Sabbath morning in the sunny month of June,
Oh, waefu' Sabbath morning, when Scotland's sun gaed doon,
And bright that Sabbath morning broke-to close so dark and drear,
For Scotland's hour of woe had come, and Scotland's doom was near.
The sun was on the rippling Clyde that sparkled clear and bright,
On either side the armies lay, and marshalled forth their might;
Loud rose the shouts of armed men-loud rang the cries of war,
And highland host and lowland's boast were gathered from afar.
Ten thousand sounds were mingling then with music of the drum;
Ten thousand swords were glancing bright, and told the foe had come;
There rode the faithless Livingstone-there rode the bloody Grahame,
And fierce Dalziel, and Monmouth there, to work their country's shame.
With fife and drum, and banner red, and war-pipes shrill and clear,
The foe are marching to the bridge-their horsemen in the rear;
Loud rose the shout, "God save the King!" and answer back we sent,
"The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts! and Kirk and Covenant!"
Right facing them our army lay, the river roll'd between,
And Burley bold, and Morton brave, on Bothwell Brig were seen;
Behind them, spreading on the moor, our scattered army lay,
With none to lead them to the fight and win that bloody day.
Loud murmurs swelled along our ranks-by factions weak and blind
Our camp was tossed, like forest leaves blown by the autumn wind;
Loud rose the sounds of angry strife-loud raged the fierce debate,
And traitor words were spoken whilst the foe were at the gate.
Where is the spirit that of old defied th' invader's might―
Where is the hero like of old to put the foe to flight?
Oh, for an hour of Cromwell's sword to change the fate of war,
Oh, for the arm that led them on at Marston and Dunbar.
Had we the blade of Wallace true, or Bruce to lead the van,
Our foes would flee before our face as their forefathers ran;
Had we one arm to guide us on-the battle-tide to turn,
Our song would be of victory, and Bothwell-Bannockburn!
On Bothwell Brig a dauntless few stood forth in stern array,
Right gallantly they kept the bridge upon that fatal day;
With pike and gun, and sword and spear, and hearts sae leal and true,
Long stood they there in glory's place to guard our banner blue.
Thrice rush'd the foe the bridge to gain, and thrice our blades drank blood, Some fell beneath the broad claymore-some threw we in the flood; Again the shout, "God save the King!" and answer back we sent, "The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts! and Kirk and Covenant !" 'Gainst fearful odds they kept the bridge till one by one they fell, And deeds of glory had been done no minstrel tongue can tell; "The Bridge is lost!" God help us now, for yonder come the foe, And horsemen with their nodding plumes now cross the ford below. Then out spoke Grahame of Claverhouse-a bloody man was he: "Now charge them with the sword and lance—your battle-cry Dundee !" Then spoke out sturdy Cameron-a brave old man was he: "In God we trust, our cause is just, we fear not thine nor thee.
"Curse on thee, bloody Clavers, now, curse on thee evermore,
Curse on thy traitor hand, that dy'd old Scotland's streams with gore;
Long as the hills of Scotland stand shall hated be thy name,
And each true Scottish tongue for aye shall curse the bloody Grahame."
But see! the foe have passed the bridge, their must'ring ranks are near,
Their swords are glancing in the sun-their horsemen in the rear.
Again the shout, "God save the King!" and answer back we sent,
"The Lord of Hosts! The Lord of Hosts! and Kirk and Covenant."
In vain, in vain, ye dauntless few, with Burley keep the van!
In vain around our banner blue, die fighting man to man!
"The day is lost!" our stricken host like traitors turn and flee;
God help me ever from the shame such other sight to see!
Oh, weep for Scotland, weep! for God hath her afflicted sore,
Weep-weep bloody tears for Scotland-her freedom is no more;
Oh, bright that Sabbath morning broke-the sun shone on the flood,
But ere that Sabbath day had clos'd-her sun went down in blood.
ART THOU LIVING YET?
BY JAMES G. CLARK.
Is there no grand, immortal sphere
Beyond this realm of broken ties,
To fill the wants that mock us here,
And dry the tears from weeping eyes;
Where Winter melts in endless Spring,
And June stands near with deathless flowers;
Where we may hear the dear ones sing
Who loved us in this world of ours?
I ask, and lo! my cheeks are wet
With tears for one I cannot see;
Oh, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
I feel thy kisses o'er me thrill,
Thou unseen angel of my life;
I hear thy hymns around me trill,
An undertone to care and strife;
Thy tender eyes upon me shine,
As from a being glorified,
Till I am thine and thou art mine,
And I forget that thou hast died.
I almost lose each vain regret
In visions of a life to be;
But, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
The Springtimes bloom, the Summers fade,
The Winters blow along my way;
But over every light or shade
Thy memory lives by night and day;
It soothes to sleep my wildest pain,
Like some sweet song that cannot die,
And, like the murmur of the main,
Grows deeper when the storm is nigh.
I know the brightest stars that set
Return to bless the yearning sea;
But, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
I sometimes think thy soul comes back
From o'er the dark and silent stream
Where last we watched thy shining track,
To those green hills of which we dream;
Thy loving arms around me twine,
My cheeks bloom younger in thy breath,
Till thou art mine and I am thine,
Without a thought of pain or death;
And yet, at times, my eyes are wet
With tears for her I cannot see
Oh, mother, art thou living yet,
And dost thou still remember me?
OLD Parson Kelly's fair young wife Irene
Died when but three months wed,
And no new love has ever come between
His true heart and the dead,
Though now for sixty years the grass has grown
Upon her
grave, and on its simple stone
The moss
And yellow lichens creep her name across.
Outside the door, in the warm summer air,
The old man sits for hours,
The idle wind that stirs his silver hair
Is sweet with June's first flowers;
But dull his mind, and clouded with the haze
Of life's last weary, gray November days;
And dim
The past and present look alike to him.
The sunny scene around, confused and blurred,
The twitter of the birds,
Blend in his mind with voices long since heard—
Glad childhood's careless words,
Old hymns and Scripture texts; while indistinct
Yet strong, one thought with all fair things is linkedThe bride
Of his lost youth is ever by his side.
By its sweet weight of snowy blossoms bowed
The rose-tree branch hangs low,
And in the sunshine, like a fleecy cloud,
Sways slowly to and fro.
"Oh! is it you?" the old man asks, "Irene !"
And smiles, and fancies that her face he's seen
Beneath
The opening roses of a bridal wreath!
Down from the gambrel roof a white dove flits,
The sunshine on its wings,
And lighting close to where the dreamer sits,
A vision with it brings
A golden gleam from some lorg vanished day.
"Dear love," he calls; then, "Why will you not stay?" He sighs,
For, at his voice, the bird looks up and flies!
O constant heart! whose failing thoughts cling fast
To one long laid in dust,
Still seeing, turned to thine, as in the past,
Her look of perfect trust,
Her soft voice hearing in the south wind's breath,
Dream on! Love pure as thine shall outlive death,
And when
The gates unfold, her eyes meet thine again!
JOHN AND TIBBIE DAVISON'S DISPUTE.
BY ROBERT LEIGHTON.
JOHN DAVISON and Tibbie, his wife,
Sat toasting their taes ae nicht,
When something startit in the fluir,
And blinkit by their sicht.
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