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So spak the knicht; the geaunt sed'Lead forth with the the sely maid,

THE VERSES FOUND IN BOTH. WELL'S POCKET-BOOK.

And mak me quite of thé and sche; THY hue, dear pledge, is pure and

For glaunsing ee, or brow so brent,
Or cheek with rose and lilye blent,
Me-lists not fecht with thé.
Chap. IX.

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bright,

As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove, And first my Agnes whisper'd love.

Since then how often hast thou press'd

The torrid zone. of this wild breast, Whose wrath and hate have sworn to dwell

With the first sin which peopled hell, A breast whose blood's a troubled ocean,

Each throb the earthquake's wild commotion!

O, if such clime thou canst endure,
Yet keep thy hue unstain'd and pure,
What conquest o'er each erring thought
Of that fierce realm had Agnes
wrought!

I had not wander'd wild and wide,
With such an angel for my guide;

Nor heaven nor earth could then

reprove me,

If she had lived, and lived to love me.

Not then this world's wild joys had
been

To me one savage hunting scene,
My sole delight the headlong race,
And frantic hurry of the chase;
To start, pursue, and bring to bay,
Rush in, drag down, and rend my |

prey,

Then-from the carcass turn away! Mine ireful mood had sweetness tamed,

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And soothed each wound which pride, FRANCIS OSBALDISTONE'S LINES

inflamed!

Yes, God and man might now approve

me,

Ifthou hadst lived, and lived to love me. Chap. XXII.

MOTTOES.

AROUSE thee, youth!-it is no common call,

God's Church is leaguer'd-haste to

man the wall;

Haste where the Red-cross banners wave on high,

Signals of honour'd death or victory. ? James Duff.

Chap. IV.

[My hounds may a' rin masterless, My hawks may fly frae tree to tree,] My lord may grip my vassal lands, For there again maun I never be! Old Ballad.

Chap. XIII.

SOUND, Sound the clarion, fill the fife!

To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. Anonymous,

Chap. XXXIII.

TO THE MEMORY OF EDWARD THE BLACK PRINCE.

O FOR the voice of that wild horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,
The dying hero's call,
That told imperial Charlemagne
How Paynim sons of swarthy Spain
Had wrought his champion's fall.

Sad over earth and ocean sounding, And England's distant cliffs astounding,

Such are the notes should say How Britain's hope, and France's fear, Victor of Cressy and Poitier,

In Bordeaux dying lay.

'Raise my faint head, my squires,' he said, 'And let the casement be display'd, That I may see once more The splendour of the setting sun Gleam on thy mirror'd wave, Garonne, And Blay's empurpled shore.

'Like me, he sinks to Glory's sleep, His fall the dews of evening steep, As if in sorrow shed.

So soft shall fall the trickling tear, When England's maids and matrons hear

Of their Black Edward dead.

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Africk came,

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Led on by Agramant, their youthful Yon lamp its line of quivering light

king

Him whom revenge and hasty ire did

bring

O'er the broad wave, in France to waste and war;

Such ills from old Trojano's death did spring,

Which to avenge he came from realms afar,

And menaced Christian Charles, the

Roman Emperor.

Of dauntless Roland, too, my strain shall sound,

In import never known in prose or rhyme,

How he, the chief of judgment deem'd profound,

For luckless love was crazed upon a time

Chap. XVI.

MOTTOES.

In the wide pile, by others heeded not, Hers was one sacred solitary spot,

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Look round thee, young Astolpho: Here's the place

Which men (for being poor) are sent to starve in,

Rude remedy, I trow, for sore disease. Within these walls, stifled by damp and stench,

Doth Hope's fair torch expire; and at the snuff,

Ere yet 'tis quite extinct, rude, wild, and wayward,

The desperate revelries of wild depair,

Kindling their hell-born cressets, light to deeds

That the poor captive would have died ere practised,

Till bondage sunk his soul to his condition.

Chap. XXII,

The Prison, Act i. Sc. iii.

FAR as the eye could reach no tree was

seen,

To the cataract's roar where the eagles reply,

Earth, clad in russet, scorn'd the lively And the lake her lone bosom expands

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WHEN the glede's in the blue cloud, The lavrock lies still;

When sunk proud Rome beneath the When the hound's in the greenwood

Gallic sword

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The hind keeps the hill.

O SLEEP ye sound, Sir James, she said, When ye suld rise and ride! There's twenty men, wi' bow and blade, Are seeking where ye hide.

I GLANCE like the wildfire through country and town;

I'm seen on the causeway-I'm seen on the down;

The lightning that flashes so bright and so free,

Is scarcely so blithe or so bonny as me,

WHAT did ye wi' the bridal ring, bridal ring, bridal ring? What did ye wi' your wedding ring. ye little cutty quean, O?

I gied it till a sodger, a sodger, a sodger,

I gied it till a sodger, an auld true love o' mine, O.

Goop even, good fair moon, good even I am Queen of the Wake, and I'm Lady of May,

to thee; I prithee, dear moon, now show to me And I lead the blithe ring round the The form and the features, the speech May-pole to-day;

and degree,

Of the man that true lover of mine shall be.

It is the bonny butcher lad
That wears the sleeves of blue,
He sells the flesh on Saturday,
On Friday that he slew.

The wild-fire that flashes so fair and so free

Was never so bright, or so bonnie as me.

OUR work is over-over now,
The goodman wipes his weary brow,
The last long wain wends slow away,
And we are free to sport and play.

The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labour ends when day is done.

THERE's a bloodhound ranging Tin- When Autumn's gone, and Winter's

wald Wood,

There's harness glancing sheen; There's a maiden sits on Tinwald brac, And she sings loud between.

IN the bonnie cells of Bedlam,
Ere I was ane and twenty,

I had hempen bracelets strong,
And merry whips, ding-dong,

And prayer and fasting plenty.

come,

We hold our jovial harvest-home.

WHEN the fight of grace is fought,
When the marriage vest is wrought,
When Faith has chased cold Doubt

away,

And Hope but sickens at delay,
When Charity, imprisoned here,
Longs for a more expanded sphere,-
Doff thy robes of sin and clay,
Christian, rise, and come away.

My banes are buried in yon kirk-yard CAULD is my bed, Lord Archibald,

Sae far ayont the sea,

And it is but my blithesome ghaist
That's speaking now to thee.

And sad my sleep of sorrow: But thine sall be as sad and cauld,

My fause true-love! to-morrow. And weep ye not, my maidens free, Though death your mistress borrow;

I'M Madge of the country, I'm Madge For he for whom I die to-day,

of the town,

And I'm Madge of the lad I am

blithest to own-

The Lady of Beever in diamonds may

shine,

Shall die for me to-morrow.

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,
Walking so carly;

Singing so rarely.

But has not a heart half so lightsome Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

as mine.

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