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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 stars they shot along the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.

The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.

The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing, ecrie din;
Athart the lift they start and shift,
Like Fortune's favors, tint as win.

By heedless chance I turn'd my eyes,
And by the moonbeam, shook, to see

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.

Had I statue been o' stane,

His darin' look had daunted me:
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posy - Libertie!

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;
But what he said it was nae play,

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,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie.

Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front of battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward! chains! and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
Caledonian! on wi' me!

By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be-shall be free!

Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!

Liberty's in every blow!

Forward! let us do, or die!

SCENE

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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, frighten the coward and slave;

Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!

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,
Our king and our country to save -

While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands
O! who wou'd not rest with the brave!

33

IMITATION

OF AN OLD JACOBITE SONG.

By yon castle wa', at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;

We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,

And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd;
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.

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THE LASS OF INVERNESS.

THE lovely lass o' Inverness,

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, Alas!

And ay the saut tear blin's her e'e.

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