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LINES BY CAPTAIN WAVERLEY

ON RECEIVING HIS COMMISSION IN
COLONEL GARDINER'S REGIMENT.

LATE, when the autumn evening fell
On Mirkwood-Mere's romantic dell,
The lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam,
The purple cloud, the golden beam:
Reflected in the crystal pool,
Headland and bank lay fair and cool;
The weather-tinted rock and tower,
Each drooping tree, each fairy flower,
So true, so soft, the mirror gave,
As if there lay beneath the wave,
Secure from trouble, toil, and care,
A world than earthly world more fair.

But distant winds began to wake,
And roused the Genius of the Lake!
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn'd at once his sable cloak,
As warrior, at the battle cry,
Invests him with his panoply:
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd,
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest
O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd
cheek,

And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd,
Flitted that fond ideal world;
And, to the shore in tumult tost,
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

Yet, with a stern delight and strange,
I saw the spirit-stirring change.
As warr'd the wind with wave and
wood,

Upon the ruin'd tower I stood,
And felt my heart more strongly bound,
Responsive to the lofty sound,
While, joying in the mighty roar,
I mourn'd that tranquil scene no more.

So, on the idle dreams of youth
Breaks the loud trumpet-call of truth,
Bids each fair vision pass away,
Like landscape on the lake that lay,

As fair, as flitting, and as frail,
As that which fled the autumn gale—
For ever dead to fancy's eye

Be each gay form that glided by,
While dreams of love and lady's charms
Give place to honour and to arms!
Chap. v.

Davie GellatleY sings

False love, and hast thou play'd me this

In summer among the flowers? I will repay thee back again

In winter among the showers.
Unless again, again, my love,

Unless you turn again;
As you with other maidens rove,
I'll smile on other men.

THE Knight's to the mountain
His bugle to wind;
The Lady's to greenwood

Her garland to bind.
The bower of Burd Ellen

Has moss on the floor, That the step of Lord William Be silent and sure.

Chap. IX.

SCENE-Luckie Macleary's Tavern. BARON BRADWARDINE sings:MON cœur volage, dit-elle,

N'est pas pour vous, garçon; Mais pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.

Qui porte chapeau à plume,
Soulier à rouge talon,
Qui joue de la flûte,
Aussi du violon.

Lon, Lon, Laridon.

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The Lady she sate in Saint Swithin's Chair,

The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:

Her cheek was pale-but resolved and high

Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,

When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,

When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,

And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

He that dare sit on Saint Swithin's Chair,

When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,

Questions three, when he speaks the spell,

He may ask, and she must tell.

The Baron has been with King Robert his liege,

These three long years, in battle and siege;

News are there none of his weal or his woe,

And fain the Lady his fate would know.

She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks ;

Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
Or is that sound, betwixt laughter and

scream,

The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?

The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,

And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;

The calm was more dreadful than The dirk and the target lie sordid

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GELLATLEY sings:

YOUNG men will love thee more fair and more fast;

with dust,

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Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Be mute every string, and be hush'd Old men's love the longest will last, And the throstle-cock's head is under That shall bid us remember the fame

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every tone,

that is flown.

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O, sprung from the kings who in
Islay kept state,
Proud chiefs of Clan-Ranald, Glen-
garry, and Sleat!

Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,

And resistless in union rush down on the foe.

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

Mac-Niel of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,

For honour, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Awake on your hills, on your islands awake,

Brave sons of the mountain, the frith, and the lake!

'Tis the bugle- but not for the chase is the call;

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and 'Tis the pibroch's shrill summonsbut not to the hall.

burnish thy steel!

Rough Keppoch, give breath to thy 'Tis the summons of heroes for con

bugle's bold swell,

Till far Coryarrick resound to the knell!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,

Let the stag in thy standard bound

wild in the gale!

May the race of Clan-Gillean, the
fearless and free,
Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and
Dundee !

Let the clan of grey Fingon, whose offspring has given

Such heroes to earth, and such martyrs to heaven,

Unite with the race of renown'd Rorri More,

To launch the long galley, and stretch

to the oar!

How Mac-Shimei will joy when their chief shall display

The yew-crested bonnet o'er tresses of grey !

How the race of wrong'd Alpine and murder'd Glencoe

Shall shout for revenge when they pour on the foe!

Ye sons of brown Dermid, who slew
the wild boar,
Resume the pure faith of the great
Callum-More!

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And thou, brave tenant of the tomb!
Repine not if our clime deny,
Above thine honour'd sod to bloom,
The flowrets of a milder sky.

These owe their birth to genial May;
Beneath a fiercer sun they pine,
Before the winter storm decay-

Yet who, in Fortune's summer-shine
To waste life's longest term away,
Would change that glorious dawn of
thine,

Though darken'd ere its noontide
day?

Be thine the Tree whose dauntless boughs

Brave summer's drought and winter's gloom!

Rome bound with oak her patriots'
brows,

As Albyn shadows Wogan's tomb.
Chap. XXIX.

GELLATLEY sings :—

[THEY came upon us in the night, And brake my bower and slew my knight;

And can their worth be type of My servants a' for life did flee

thine?

No! for, 'mid storms of Fate opposing, Still higher swell'd thy dauntless heart,

And, while Despair the scene was closing,

Commenced thy brief but brilliant part.

'Twas then thou sought'st on Albyn's

hill

(When England's sons the strife resign'd)

A rugged race, resisting still,

And unsubdued, though unrefined.

Thy death's hour heard no kindred wail,

No holy knell thy requiem rung; Thy mourners were the plaided Gael, Thy dirge the clamorous pibroch

sung.

And left us in extremitie.

They slew my knight to me sae dear;
They slew my knight, and drave his
gear ;]

The moon may set, the sun may rise,
But a deadly sleep has closed his eyes.

But follow, follow me,
While glowworms light the lea,
I'll show ye where the dead should
be-

Each in his shroud,
While winds pipe loud,

And the red moon peeps dim through
the cloud.

Follow, follow me;
Brave should he be

That treads by night the dead man's lea.
Chap. LXIII.

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