THE DANCE OF DEATH. (1815.) NIGHT and morning were at meeting Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Where the soldier lay, But long his native lake's wild shore, And Morven long shall tell, Lone on the outskirts of the host course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerv- But there are sounds in Allan's car Chill and stiff, and drench'd with Invisible to them have pass'd, rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Though death should come with day. Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, 'Tis at such a tide and hour, Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's car Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear, Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men ; Had follow'd stout and stern, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no morc, Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march For Flodden's fatal plain; With gestures wild and dread : The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, Saw through their faint and shadowy form The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's | Was of the coming battle-fray, gore And of the destined dead : ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. (1815.) (From the French of Hortense Beauharnois, Ex-Queen of Holland. It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine: 'And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' was still the soldier's prayer, THE TROUBADOUR. (1815.) From the French of Hortense Beauharnois. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his Lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good morrow: 'My arm it is my country's right, 'That I may prove the bravest knight, | Gaily for love and fame to fight and love the fairest fair.' Befits the gallant Troubadour.' His oath of honour on the shrine he| And while he march'd with helm on graved it with his sword, And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord; Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air, 'Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.' They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said, 'The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid. My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.' And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary's shrine, That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright, that were in chapel there, Cried, 'Honour'd be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!' head And harp in hand, the descant rung, As, faithful to his favourite maid, The minstrel-burden still he sung: 'My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour.' Even when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchionsweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay: 'My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still reclining on his shield, Expiring sung the exuiting stave: My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Then up with the Banner, &c. A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her, No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no But ere a bold foeman should scathe spearmen surround; or should scorn her, A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground. Then up with the Banner, &c. We forget each contention of civil dissension, And hail, like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and Car: And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. Then up with the Banner, &c. Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at football. Then up with the Banner, &c. And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, To the lads that have lost and the May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward, From the hall of the Peer to the Herd's ingle-nook; And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buccleuch and his standard, O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For the King and the Country, the For strife comes with manhood, and |