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And each St Clair was buried there,
With candle, with book, and with knell ;
But the sea-caves rung, and the wild winds sung,
The dirge of lovely Rosabelle.
I Stormy firth, Firth of Forth.
2 Inch, an island, as in Inchkeith, Inch-
3 Water Sprite, water demon; kelpie.
4 O'er Roslin all that dreary night
A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam.
any member of the Rosslyn family
dies. 5 Iron panoply, coat of mail. 6 Foliage bound. The pillars of Roslin
Chapel are admired for their ela
borate floral sculpture. 7 The lordly line of high St Clair. The
Sinclair family can trace its ancestral line back to the progenitors of William the Conqueror.
This fine dirge is founded on the tradition that Roslin Chapel is supernaturally illuminated when
SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND.1
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing ;
But coldly she turns from their gaze,
For her heart in his grave is lying.
She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains,
Every note which he loved awaking ;
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the minstrel is breaking.
He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him ;
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his love stay behind him.
Oh, make her a grave where the sunbeams rest
When they promise a glorious morrow;
They'll shine o'er her sleep, like a smile from the west,
From her own loved island of sorrow.
Every one that flatters thee
Is no friend in misery ;
Words are easy, like the wind ;
Faithful friends 'tis hard to find ;
Every man will be thy friend,
While thou hast wherewith to spend.
But if store of crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call ;
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will entice;
But if fortune once do frown,
Then farewell his great renown ;
They that fawned on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will keep thee in thy need.
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doth bear a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flattering foe.
Soldier, wake !--the day is peeping,
Honour ne'er was won in sleeping,
Never when the sunbeams still
Lay unreflected on the hill :
'Tis when they are glinted back
From axe and armour, spear and jack,
Arm and up—the morning beam
Hath called the rustic to his team,
Hath called the falconer to the lake,
Hath called the huntsman to the brake ;
The early student ponders o'er
His dusty tomes? of ancient lore.
Soldier, wake !-thy harvest, fame :
Thy study, conquest ; war, thy game.
Shield, that would be foeman's terror,
Still should gleam the morning's mirror.
Poor hire repays the rustic's pain ;
More paltry still the sportsman's gain.
Vainest of all, the student's theme
Ends in some metaphysic dream :
Yet each is up, and each has toiled
Since first the peep of dawn has smiled ;
And each is eagerer in his aim
Than he who barters life for fame.
Up, up, and arm thee, son of terror!
Be thy bright shield the morning's mirror.
Scott. 1 Tomes, volumes.
Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er,
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking:
Dream of battle-fields no more-
Days of danger, nights of waking.
In our isle's enchanted hall
Hands unseen thy couch are strewing,
Fairy strains of music fall,
Every sense in slumber dewing.
Soldier, rest ! thy warfare o'er,
Dream of fighting-fields no more :
Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking,
Morn of toil, nor night of waking.
No rude sound shall reach thine ear,
Armour's clang, or war-steed champing,
Trump nor pibroch summon here
Mustering clan, or squadron tramping.
Ruder sounds shall none be near,
Guards nor warders challenge here,
Here's no war-steed's neigh and champing,
Shouting clans or squadrons stamping.