THE DANCE OF DEATH. (1815.) NIGHT and morning were at meeting Over Waterloo; Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell. Lone on the outskirts of the host course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse. But there are sounds in Allan's ear 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, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear, Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men ;Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day, Had follow'd stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no 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 prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, 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 Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead : 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 falchion. sweep, 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 stavę: '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.' FROM THE FRENCH. (1815.) IT chanced that Cupid on a season, By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason Or Folly should partake his bed. What does he then ?-Upon my life, 'Twas bad example for a deity He takes me Reason for a wife, And Folly for his hours of gaiety. Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal mea sure; Fidelity was born of Reason, LINES ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT A GREAT FOOTBALL MATCH ON CARTERHAUGH. (1815.) FROM the brown crest of Newark its ..summons extending, Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame; And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending, Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game. CHORUS. Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before. 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 spearmen surround; But ere a bold foeman should scathe 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 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 strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, &c. THE RETURN TO ULSTER. (1816.) ONCE again, but how changed since my wand'rings began I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to the roar That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn? With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return? Can I live the dear life of delusion again, That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain? It was then that around me, though poor and unknown, High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown ; The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire At the rush of their verse, and the sweep of their lyre: To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear. |