POETRY OF SIR WALTER SCOTT,

Published in the Border Minstrelsy.

THOMAS THE RHYMER.1

WHEN Seven years more were come and gone,
Was war through Scotland spread,
And Ruberslaw show'd high Dunyon'
His beacon blazing red.

Then all by bonny Coldingknow,"
Pitch'd palliouns took their room,
And crested helms, and spears a-rowe,
Glanced gaily through the broom.

The Leader, rolling to the Tweed,
Resounds the ensenzie;'

They roused the deer from Caddenhead,

To distant Torwoodlee."

'This is the Third Part of the ancient poem so entitled; but, being the production of Sir Walter Scott, it is included in the present edition.—

AM. PUB.

Ruberslaw and Dunyon, are two hills near Jedburgh. An ancient tower near Ercildoune, belonging to a family of the name of Home. One of Thomas's prophecies is said to have run thus:

"Vengeance! vengeance! when and where?

On the house of Coldingknow, now and ever mair!"

The spot is rendered classical by its having given name to the beautiful melody called the Broom o' the Cowdenknows.

4 Ensenzie-War-cry, or gathering word.

Torwoodlee and Caddenhead are places in Selkirkshire; both the property of Mr. Pringle of Torwoodlee.

The feast was spread in Ercildoune,

In Learmont's high and ancient hall:
And there were knights of great renown,
And ladies, laced in pall.

Nor lacked they, while they sat at dine,
The music nor the tale,

Nor goblets of the blood-red wine,
Nor mantling quaighs' of ale.

True Thomas rose, with harp in hand,
When as the feast was done:

(In minstrel strife, in Fairy Land,

The elfin harp he won.)

Hush'd were the throng, both limb and tongue,
And harpers for envy pale;

And armed lords lean'd on their swords,
And hearken'd to the tale.

In numbers high, the witching tale

The prophet pour'd along;
No after bard might e'er avail'
Those numbers to prolong.

Yet fragments of the lofty strain
Float down the tide of years,
As, buoyant on the stormy main,
A parted wreck appears.

He sung King Arthur's Table Round:

The Warrior of the Lake;

How courteous Gawaine met the wound,"

And bled for ladies' sake.

But chief, in gentle Tristrem's praise,
The notes melodious swell;

Was none excell'd in Arthur's days,
The knight of Lionelle.

'Quaighs-Wooden cups, composed of staves hooped together. 2 See introduction to this ballad.

See, in the Fabliaux of Mousieur le Grand, elegantly translated by the ate Gregory Way, Esq., the tale of the Knight and the Sword.

For Marke, his cowardly uncle's right,
A venom'd wound he bore;

When fierce Morholde he slew in fight,
Upon the Irish shore.

No art the poison might withstand;
No medicine could be found,

Till lovely Isolde's lily hand

Had probed the rankling wound.

With gentle hand and soothing tongue
She bore the leech's part;

And, while she o'er his sick-bed hung,
He paid her with his heart.

O fatal was the gift, I ween!
For, doom'd in evil tide,

The maid must be rude Cornwall's queen,
His cowardly uncle's bride.

Their loves, their woes, the gifted bard,
In fairy tissue wove;

Where lords, and knights, and ladies bright,
In gay confusion strove.

The Garde Joyeuse, amid the tale,
High rear'd its glittering head;
And Avalon's enchanted vale

In all its wonders spread.

Brangwain was there, and Segramore,
And fiend-born Merlin's gramarye;
Of that famed wizard's mighty lore,
O who could sing but he?

Through many a maze the winning song
In changeful passion led,

Till bent at length the listening throng
O'er Tristrem's dying bed.

His ancient wounds their scars expand,
With agony his heart is wrung:
O where is Isolde's lilye hand,
And where her soothing tongue?

She comes! she comes!-like flash of flame Can lovers' footsteps fly:

She comes! she comes!

To see her Tristrem die.

she only came

She saw him die; her latest sigh
Join'd in a kiss his parting breath;
The gentlest pair, that Britain bare,
United are in death.

There paused the harp: its lingering sound

Died slowly on the ear;

The silent guests still bent around,

For still they seem'd to hear.

Then woe broke forth in murmurs weak:
Nor ladies heaved alone the sigh;

But, half ashamed, the rugged cheek
Did many a gauntlet dry.

On Leader's stream, and Learmont's tower,

The mists of evening close;

In camp, in castle, or in bower,
Each warrior sought repose.

Lord Douglas, in his lofty tent,

Dream'd o'er the woeful tale;

When footsteps light, across the bent,
The warrior's ears assail.

He starts, he wakes;- "What, Richard, ho! Arise, my page, arise!

What venturous wight, at dead of night,

Dare step where Douglas lies!".

A hart and hind pace side by side,
As white as snow on Fairnalie.'

Beneath the moon, with gesture proud,
They stately move and slow;

Nor scare they at the gathering crowd,
Who marvel as they go.

To Learmont's tower a message sped,
As fast as page might run;
And Thomas started from his bed,
And soon his clothes did on.

First he woxe pale, and then woxe red;
Never a word he spake but three;
"My sand is run; my thread is spun;
This sign regardeth me.”

The elfin harp his neck around,

In minstrel guise, he hung;

And on the wind, in doleful sound,

Its dying accents rung.

Then forth he went; yet turn'd him oft
To view his ancient hall:

On the grey tower, in lustre soft,
The autumn moonbeams fall;

And Leader's waves, like silver sheen,
Danced shimmering in the ray;
In deepening mass, at distance seen,
Broad Soltra's mountains lay.

'Selcouth-Wondrous.

2 An ancient seat upon the Tweed, in Selkirkshire. In a popular edition of the first part of Thomas the Rhymer, the Fairy Queen thus addresses him:

Gin ye wad meet wi' me again,

Gang to the bonny banks of Fairnalie."

[Fairnilee is now one of the seats of Mr. Pringle of Clifton, M. P. for Selkirkshire, 1833.]