PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.

Sir Walter Scott.

PIBROCH1 of Donuil Dhu,2

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!

Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountains so rocky,

The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlocky.
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges:

Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

1 Pibroch, a wild, irregular species of music used to rouse a martial spirit among the clans.

2 Dhu, the Black.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when
Navies are stranded:
Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

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 each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!

CORONACH.1

From THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

Sir Walter Scott.

He is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,
Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow,

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

1 Coronach, a lamentation for the dead.

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary,
But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest,
But our flower was in flushing,

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,2

Sage counsel in cumber,3

Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,
Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain
Thou art gone, and forever.

THE DESPAIRING LOVER.

William Walsh.

DISTRACTED with care,

For Phyllis the fair,

Since nothing can move her,
Poor Damon, her lover,

Resolves in despair

No longer to languish

Nor bear so much anguish;

2 correi, a hollow space in the side of a hill.

3 cumber, trouble.

But, mad with his love,
To a precipice goes,
Where a leap from above

Will soon finish his woes.

When, in rage, he came there, Beholding how steep

The sides did appear,

And the bottom how deep;

His torments projecting,

And sadly reflecting

That a lover forsaken

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken Can never be set;

And that he could die
Whenever he would,

But that he could live

But as long as he could;

How grievous soever

The torment might grow, He scorn'd to endeavor

To finish it so.

But bold, unconcern'd,

At thoughts of the pain,

He calmly return'd

To his cottage again.

A DIRGE.

From CYMBELINE.

William Shakespeare.

FEAR no more the heat o' the sun,
Nor the furious winter's rages;

Thou thy worldly task hast done,
Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages:
Golden lads and girls all must,
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

Fear no more the frown o' the great;
Thou art past the tyrant's stroke;
Care no more to clothe and eat;
To thee the reed is as the oak:
The sceptre, learning, physic, must
All follow this and come to dust.

Fear no more the lightning-flash,
Nor the all-dreaded thunder-stone;
Fear not slander, censure rash;

Thou hast finish'd joy and moan :
All lovers young, all lovers must
Consign to thee and come to dust.

No exorciser harm thee!

Nor no witchcraft charm thee!
Ghost unlaid forbear thee!
Nothing ill come near thee!
Quiet consummation have;
And renowned be thy grave!