BORDER MARCH. MARCH, march, Ettrick, and Teviot dale, To find, and canst not find. Could Spirits shed Tears for their lot, it were my lot to weep, Why the dei dinna ye march Showing the road which I shall never forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story. Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory. Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, tread, Though my foot points it. Sleep, eternal sleep, Dark, long, and cold forgetfulness my lot! But do not thou at human ills repine; Secure there lies full guerdon in this spot For all the woes that wait frail Stoop then and make it yours-I may not make it mine! Chap. xxx. THE WHITE LADY TO EDWARD. Come with the buckler, the lance, THOU who seek'st my fountain lone, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms, and march in good order; England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border. Chap. xxv. THE WHITE LADY TO MARY AVENEL. With thoughts and hopes thou dar'st not own; Whose heart within leap'd wildly glad, When most his brow seem'd dark and sad; Hie thee back, thou find'st not here The living dead, whose sober brow Oft shrouds such thoughts as thou hast now, Whose hearts within are seldom cured Of passions by their vows abjured; MAIDEN, whose sorrows wail the Where, under sad and solemn show, NAY, dally not with time, the wise man's treasure, Though fools are lavish on 't; the fatal Fisher He shall be mighty beef, our English staple ; The worthy Alderman, a butter'd dumpling; Hooks souls, while we waste moments. Yon pair of whisker'd Cornets, ruffs Now on my faith this gear is all Wher chast Susanne in times long gon, Was wont to wash her bodie and lim entangled, Like to the yarn-clew of the drowsy Mickle vertue hath that streme, As ye shall se er that ye pas, knitter, Dragg'd by the frolic kitten through Ensample by this little glas the cabin, Through nightés cold and dayés hote, While the good dame sits nodding Hiderward I have it brought; |