II.

FROM GUY MANNERING.

THE NATIVITY CHANT.

(BY MEG MERRILIES.)
CANNY moment, lucky fit;
Is the lady lighter yet?
Be it lad, or be it lass,

Sign wi' cross, and sain wi' mass.

Trefoil, vervain, John's-wort, dill,
Hinders witches of their will;
Weel is them, that weel may
Fast upon Saint Andrew's day.

Saint Bride and her brat,
Saint Colme and her cat,
Saint Michael and his spear,
Keep the house frae reif and wear.
Chap. III.

THE SPINDLE SONG.
(BY MEG MERRILIES.)

TWIST ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle shades of joy and woe,
Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,
In the thread of human life.

While the mystic twist is spinning,
And the infant's life beginning,
Dimly seen through twilight bending,
Lo, what varied shapes attending!

Passions wild, and follies vain,
Pleasures soon exchanged for pain;
Doubt, and jealousy, and fear,
In the magic dance appear.
Now they wax, and now they dwindle,
Whirling with the whirling spindle.
Twist ye, twine ye! even so
Mingle human bliss and woe.

Chap. III.

THE GIPSY'S DIRGE.

(BY MEG MERRILIES.)

WASTED, weary, wherefore stay, Wrestling thus with earth and clay? From the body pass away

Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed,
Saints to help thee at thy need ;-
Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snowdrift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast

That shall ne'er know waking. Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone, Earth flits fast, and time draws on,Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan, Day is near the breaking.

Open locks, end strife,
Come death, and pass life.

OLD ELSPETH sings:

III.

FROM THE ANTIQUARY.

THE AGED CARLE.

'WHY sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall,

Or ponder how it pass'd away?'—

'Know'st thou not me?' the Deep Voice cried;

'So long enjoy'd, so oft misusedAlternate, in thy fickle pride,

Desired, neglected, and accused!

'Before my breath, like blazing flax,

Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax,

Are founded, flourish, and decay. 'Redeem mine hours-the space is brief

While in my glass the sand-grains shiver,

And measureless thy joy or grief When TIME and thou shall part for ever!'

Chap. x.

AN EPITAPH.

HEIR lyeth John o' ye Girnell;
Erth has ye nit and heuen ye kirnell.
In hys tyme ilk wyfe's hennis clokit,
Ilk gud mannis herth wi' bairnis was
stokit.

He deled a boll o' bear in firlottis fyve, Four for ye halie kirke and ane for pure mennis wyvis.

Chap. XI.

'THE herring loves the merry moonlight,

The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang, For they come of a gentle kind.'

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle,

And listen, great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl

That fought on the red Harlaw.

The cronach 's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a',

And hieland and lawland may mourn fu' be

For the sair field of Harlaw.

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,

They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head,

And a good knight upon his back.

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,
A mile, but barely ten,
When Donald came branking down
the brae

Wi' twenty thousand men.
Their tartans they were waving wide,

Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rung frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear.

The great Earl in his stirrups stood,

That Highland host to see; Now here a knight that's stout and good

May prove a jeopardie:

'What would'st thou do, my squire

be our guest.

Were ye Glenallan's Earl?' 'Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane.

If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten,

Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men.

ditty,

Our haunted room was ever held the best:

If, then, your valour can the fight

sustain

THE Lord Abbot had a soul

Pepin's cradle.

On Title-page.

the fire:

By magic stairs he went as deep as hell,

So, while the Goose, of whom the fable told,

gold,

too dear,

C.C