When o'er her mellow notes he ran,
And his wild mountain chaunt began,
Then first was noted in his eye,

A gleam of native energy.

Did David.

THE TENTH BARD'S SONG.

Old David rose ere it was day,

And climbed old Wonfell's wizard brae;
Looked round, with visage grim and sour,
O'er Ettrick woods and Eskdale-moor.

An outlaw from the south he came,
And Ludlow was his father's name;

His native land had used him ill,
And Scotland bore him no good-will.

As fixed he stood, in sullen scorn,

Regardless of the streaks of morn,
Old David spied, on Wonfell cone,

A fairy band come riding on.

)

But when the bard himself appeared,

The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneered;

For such a simple air and mien

Before a court had never been.

A clown he was, bred in the wild,
And late from native moors exiled,
In hopes his mellow mountain strain
High favour from the great would gain.
Poor wight! he never weened how hard

For poverty to earn regard !
Dejection o'er his visage ran,

His coat was bare, his colour wan,

His forest doublet darned and torn,
His shepherd plaid all rent and worn;

Yet dear the symbols to his eye,
Memorials of a time gone bye.

The bard on Ettrick's mountain green

In Nature's bosom nursed had been,

And oft had marked in forest lone

Her beauties on her mountain throne;

Had seen her deck the wild-wood tree,
And star with snowy gems the lea;
In loveliest colours paint the plain,
And sow the moor with purple grain ;
By golden mead and mountain sheer,
Had viewed the Ettrick waving clear,
Where shadowy flocks of purest snow
Seemed grazing in a world below.

Instead of Ocean's billowy pride,

Where monsters play and navies ride,
Oft had he viewed, as morning rose,
The bosom of the lonely Lowes,
Plowed far by many a downy keel,
Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal.

Oft thrilled his heart at close of even,

With many a mountain, moor, and tree,

Asleep upon the Saint Mary;

The pilot swan majestic wind,
With all his cygnet fleet behind,

So softly sail, and swiftly row,
With sable oar and silken prow.

Instead of war's unhallowed form,

His eye had seen the thunder-storm
Descend within the mountain's brim,
And shroud him in its chambers grim;
Then from its bowels burst amain

The sheeted flame and sounding rain,

And by the bolts in thunder borne,

The heaven's own breast and mountain torn;

The wild roe from the forest driven;

The oaks of ages peeled and riven;

Impending oceans whirl and boil,

Convulsed by Nature's grand turmoil.

Instead of arms or golden crest,

His harp with mimic flowers was drest:
Around, in graceful streamers, fell

The briar-rose and the heather bell;
And there, his learning deep to prove,

Natura Donum graved above.

When o'er her mellow notes he ran,

And his wild mountain chaunt began,

Then first was noted in his eye,

A gleam of native energy.

Did David.

THE TENTH BARD'S SONG.

Old David rose ere it was day,

And climbed old Wonfell's wizard brae;
Looked round, with visage grim and sour,
O'er Ettrick woods and Eskdale-moor.

An outlaw from the south he came,
And Ludlow was his father's name;
His native land had used him ill,
And Scotland bore him no good-will.

As fixed he stood, in sullen scorn, Regardless of the streaks of morn, Old David spied, on Wonfell cone,

A fairy band come riding on.