BOOK V. SONGS AND BALLADS, A VISION. As I stood on yon roofless tower, Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care: The winds were laid, the air was still, The stream, adown its hazelly path, The cauld blue north was streaming forth By heedless chance I turn'd my eyes, A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, Had I statue been o' stane, His darin' look had daunted me: And frae his harp sic strains did flow, Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear; But, oh! it was a tale of wo, As ever met a Briton's ear. He sang wi' joy his former day, He, weeping, wail'd his latter times; I winna ventur't in my rhymes.* * The scenery, so finely described in this poem, is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing, by night, on the banks of the Cluden, near the ruins of Lincluden Abbey, of which some account is given in Pennant's Tour and Grose's Antiquities. It is to be regretted that he suppressed the song of Libertie. From the resources of his genius, and the grandeur and solemnity of the preparation, something might have been anticipated, equal, if not superior, to the Address of Bruce to his Army, to the Song of Death, or to the fervid and noble description of the Dying Soldier in the Field of Battle. BANNOCK BURN. ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. SCOTS, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Now's the day, and now's the hour; Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha for Scotland's king and law By oppression's woes and pains! But they shall be-shall be free! Lay the proud usurpers low! Liberty's in every blow! Forward! let us do, or die! SCENE SONG OF DEATH. A Field of Battle. Time of the day — Evening. The wounded and dying of the victorious army are supposed to join in the following Song. FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies, Now gay with the bright setting sun; Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties, Our race of existence is run! Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know, Thou strik'st the dull peasant he sinks in the dark, Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name; Thou strik'st the young hero a glorious mark! He falls in the blaze of his fame! In the proud field of honor-our swords in our hands, While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands 33 IMITATION OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG. By yon castle wa', at the close of the day, The church is in ruins, the state is in jars; We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame- My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd; Now life is a burden that bows me down, THE LASS OF INVERNESS. THE lovely lass o' Inverness, Nae joy nor pleasure can she see; And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e. |