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Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face
What strings symphonious tremble in the air,
What strains of vocal transport round her play?
Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear;
Bright Rapture calls, and soaring as she sings,
Waves in the eye of heaven her many-colour'd wings.
Fond impious man, think'st thou yon sanguine cloud
Raised by thy breath, has quench'd the orb of day?
To-morrow he repairs the golden flood
And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
Enough for me with joy I see
The different doom our fates assign :
Be thine despair and sceptred care,
To triumph and to die are mine.'
-He spoke, and headlong from the mountain's height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
LAMENT FOR CULLODEN
The lovely lass o' Inverness,
Their winding-sheet in the bluidy clay,
For mony a heart thou hast made sair
LAMENT FOR FLODDEN
I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning—
At bughts, in the morning, nae blythe lads are scorning,
Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching—
At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border!
We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
THE BRAES OF YARROW
Thy braes were bonny, Yarrow stream,
Behold my Love, the flower of Yarrow !
He promised me a milk-white steed
He promised me a little page
To squire me to his father's towers;
Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow !
Sweet were his words when last we met;
My passion I as freely told him;
Clasp'd in his arms, I little thought
That I should never more behold him!
His mother from the window look'd
The green-wood path to meet her brother;
They only heard the roar of Yarrow.
No longer from thy window look—
And search no more the forest thorough;
The tear shall never leave my cheek,
And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.
And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.
WILLY DROWNED IN YARROW
Down in yon garden sweet and gay
I heard a fair maid sighing say,
'Willie's rare, and Willie's fair,
And Willie's wondrous bonny;
'O gentle wind, that bloweth south,
Convey a kiss frae his dear mouth
And tell me how he fareth!
'O tell sweet Willie to come doun
And see the birds on ilka bush
And leaves around them hinging.
'The lav'rock there, wi' her white breast
'O Leader haughs are wide and braid
There Willie hecht to marry me
'But Willie's gone, whom I thought on,
'Yestreen I made my bed fu' braid,
'O came ye by yon water-side?
Or came you by yon meadow green,
She sought him up, she sought him down,
Syne, in the cleaving of a craig,
She found him drown'd in Yarrow !