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HELLVELLYN.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.

AiB-A Border Melody, In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing the first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were written for Mr Campbell's Albyn's Anthology. were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary ram- «Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? bles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmore- Why weep ye by the tide ? land.

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sall be his bride:
And

ye sall be his bride, ladie, I climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,

Sae comely to be seen»--
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and But aye she loot the tears down fa
wide;

For Jock of Hazeldean.
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied. .

« Now let this wilful grief be done, On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was And dry that cheek so pale; bending,

Young Frank is chief of Errington, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

And lord of Langley-dale; Onc huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

His step is first in peaceful ba', When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had His sword in battle keenadied.

But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean. Dark green was the spot mid the brown mountain heather,

« A chain o' gold ye sall not lack, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,

Nor braid to bind your hair;
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon d to weather, Nor metiled hound, nor managed hawk,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,

And you, the foremost o' them a', For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,

Shall ride our forest queens The much-loved remains of her master defended,

But aye she loot the tears down fa* And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

For Jock of Hazeldean.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou

start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh! was it meet, that,

-no requiem read o'cr him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,

Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmerd fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there.
They sought her both by bower and ha',

The ladie was not seen!
She's o'er the Border, and awa

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

1

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

Air-Cadil gu lot
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are

O nusu thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight;
gleaming;

Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming;

The woods and the glens, from the lowers which we see Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,

They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gulo,

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc. But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; It calls but the warders that guard thy repose; When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in their bows would be bended, their blades would be read stature,

Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,

"Sleep on till day. These words, adapted to a weledra With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, what different from the original, are sung in my friend Nr Tr* In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

drama of Guy Mannering.

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, etc.

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page,

and

groom, Tenant and master.

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.

Fast they come, fast they come;

See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward cach man set!
Pibroch of Doouil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!

Written for Albyn's Anthology.

Air-Piobair of Dhonuil Duidh.'

Tois is a very ancient pibroch belonging to the Clan Mac-Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of

NORA'S VOW. Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, launched from the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at

Written for Albyn's Anthology. loverlochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar

Air-Cha teid mis a chaoidh.' and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior to his own. The words of the set theme, or melody,

In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in that she will not go with the Red Earl's son until the Gaelic:

swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lake Piabairear bd Dboogil, piobaireachd Dbonuil ;

-until one mountain should change places with anPiobaireachd Dhogail Daidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;

other, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is Piobaireachd Dboauil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;

no authority for supposing that she altered her mindPieb agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.

except the vehemence of her protestation.
The pipe-sommons of Donald the Black,
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,
The war-pipe and the pennon are at the gathering-place on

Hear what Highland Nora said,
laverlochy.

« The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,

And none be left but he and I.
Piproc. of Donuil Dhu,

For all the gold, for all the gear,
Pibroch of Donuil,

And all the lands both far and

near,
Wake thy wild voice anew,

That ever valour lost or won,
Summon Clap-Conuil.

I would not wed the Earlie's son.»
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons !

«A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke,
Come in your war array,

« Are lightly made, and lightly broke; Gentles and commons.

The heather on the mountain's height

Begins to bloom in purple light;
Come from deep glen, and

The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
From mountain so rocky,

That lustre deep from glen and brae;
The war-pipe and pennon

Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
Are at Inverlochy:

May blithely wed the Earlie's son.»
Come every hill-plaid, and
True heart that wears one,

« The swan,» she said, « the lake's clear breast Come every steel blade, and

May barter for the eagle's nest;
Strong hand that bears one.

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,

Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Leave untended the herd,

Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
The flock without shelter;

Before their foes may turn and fly;
Leave the corpse uninterrd,

But I, were all these marvels done,
The bride at the altar;

Would never wed the Earlie's son.»
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave pets and barges;

Still in the water-lily's shade
Come with your fighting gear,

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made,
Broadswords and targes.

Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,

Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
Come as the winds come, when

To shup the clash of foeman's steel,
Forests are rended;

No Highland brogue has turo'd the heel;
Come as the waves come, when

But Nora's heart is lost and won,
Navies are stranded:

- She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

The Pibroch of Donald the Black.

1 I will never go with him..

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The boiling eddy see liim try,
MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

Then dashing from the current high,
Ain-Cha till mi muille.'

Till watchful eye and cautious land

İlave led his wasted strength to land. MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the

'T is blithe along the midnight tide, clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous

With stalwart arm the boat to guide; expedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief,

On high the dazzling blaze to rear, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the

And heedful plunge the barbed spear;

Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright, approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, « Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon

Fling on the stream their ruddy light, • I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet

And from the bank our band appears Mackrimmon shall never return !»

Like genii, arm'd with fiery spears.

The piece is but 1oo well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usual

"T is blithe at eve to tell the tale, ly take leave of their native shore.

How we succeed, and how we fall,
Whether at Alwyo's · Jordly meal,

Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ; ?
MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray castle sallies, While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
The rowers are seated, unmoord are the galleys;

Bickers the fire, and flows the wincGleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver, Days free from thought, and nights from care, As Mackrimmon sings, « Farewell to Duqvegan for ever! My blessing on the forest fair! Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming, Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer arc roaming ; Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river, Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never! THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL.

AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run. - Farewell the bright clouds that onQuillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping; To each minstrel delusion, farewell!--and for ever- | The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. Vackrimmon departs, to return to you never !

The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me, Melodies. The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me; But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver,

The sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill, Though devoted I go-to return again never!

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;

The westland wind is hush and still, Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailings

Yet not the landscape to mine eye Dear land! to the shores, whence unwilling we sever,

Bears thosc bright hues that once it bore;
Return-return--return-shall we never,

Though evening, with her richest dye,
Cha till, cha till, clia till sin tuille !

Flames o'er the hills of Eutrick's shore.
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,

With listless look along the plain,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon!»

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin d pride.

The quiet lake, the balmy air, ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.2

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Os Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,

Are they still such as once they were, 'T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,

Or is the dreary change in me?
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noon-day solitude ;

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,
By many a cairn and trenched mound,

How can it bear the painter's dye! Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,

The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds tell,

How to the midstrel's skill reply! That still the fairies love to dwell.

To aching cyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; Along the silver streams of Tweed,

And Araby's or Eden's bowers
T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,

Were barren as this moorland hill.
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;

"Alwyn, the seat of the Lord Somerville, now, alas! notebanted,

by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the 1. We retorp no more..

author's nearest Deighbour and intimate friend. • Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet

· Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time. had been engaged with some friends.

60

THE MAID OF ISLA.

Air-The Maid of Isla. Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

Air-Yandaith Mionge. Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky, Dost thou noi see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly? Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,

And steep'd her leeward deck in foam, Why does she war unequal urge?—

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

ETHELRID, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, baring besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in proces. sion, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wing gleams through mist and spray, Against the storm-clad, louring dark,

As to the rock she wheels away ;Where clouds are dark and billows rave,

Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?

O maid of Isla, 't is her home.

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come ; For in tly love, or in his grave,

Must Allan Vourich find his home.

Waen the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled pun and friar gray
March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye:
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine !
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled :
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, Hands that censers only swung, Met the northern bow and bill, Heard the war-cry wild and slırill: Woe to Brockmaei's feeble hand, Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, Woc to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

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THE FORAY.

Set to music by John Whitefield, Mus. Doc. Cam. The last of our steers on the board has been spread, And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red; Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone! There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

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The eyes,

that so lately mix'd glances with ours, For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers, And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom, The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud ;
And the moon her red beacon has veild with a cloud:
"T is the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

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Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spuru'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid :
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke ;
For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere, Domine!
Bangor! o'er the murder wail,
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recalls the woful march:'
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,

O miserere, Domine ?

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray!
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and

rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown;
One pledge is to quaff yet—then mount and begone!--
To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the

slain; To their health, and their glee, that see Teviot again!

' William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent at the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolatie *** sioned by the massacre ;--- tot semirati parietes ecclesiae, *** anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vis alibi cert

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