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O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom,
Those beams that gild thy native walls

Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the lov'd scenes may vainly smile,

Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Is mingled with the torrent's roar,
Unmark'd the red deer sport around-

Thou lead'st the chase no more.
Thy gates are clos’d, thy halls are still—
Those halls where swell'd the choral strain-
They hear the wild waves murmuring shrill,

And all is hush'd again.

Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke ;
His fire-his joy of song is past ;-
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,

His saddest and his last.
No other theme to him is dear
Than lofty deeds of thine ;
Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear,

Last of a mighty line,

both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal which we conceive it so well calculated to afford.



The bell had toll’d the midnight hour,

Monimia sought the shade,The cheerless yew tree marked the spot

Where Leontine was laid.

With soft and trembling steps, the maid

Approach'd the drear abode,
A tear-drop glisten’d on her cheek,

And dew'd her lover's sod.

Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook,

And sigh'd with hollow moan; The wand'ring moon had sunk to rest,

And faint the twilight shone.

Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,

Dew'd with the tear of sorrow, While oft she press'd her lover's grave,

Nor wak'd with dawn of morrow.



AIR.—"Jockey's gray breeks."

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,

All freshly steep'd in morning dews.
And maun I still on Menie doat,

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e !
For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk,

An' it winna let a body be!

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the vi’lets spring;
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,

The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, dc.

The merry plowboy cheers his team,

Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks;
But life to me's a weary dream,

A dream of ane that never wauks.

And maun I still, dc.

The wanton coot the water skims,

Among the reeds the ducklings cry, The stately swan majestic swims,

And ev'ry thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, &c.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,

And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill.

And maun I still, dc.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,

Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on flittering wings, A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, &c.

Come, Winter, with thine angry howl,

And raging bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul,

When nature is all sad like me.

And maun I still, dc.



A Fragment.

Silent and sad the minstrel sat,

And thought on the days of yore ; He was old, yet he lov'd his native land,

Tho' his harp could charm no more.

The winds of heaven died away,

And the moon in the valley slept, The minstrel lean’d on his olden harp,

And o’er its strains he wept.

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And sung

In youth he had stood by the Wallace side,

in King Robert's hall, When Edward vow'd with his English host

Scotland to hold in thrall.

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But the Wallace wight was dead and gone,

And Robert was on his death-bed,
And dark was the hall where the minstrel sung

Of chiefs that for Scotia bled.


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