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Go round, my wheel, round
He for whom the badge I twine,
Of a 'kerchief pure and fine,
THE MINSTREL'S LAY OF DEATH ;
FAREWELL TO HIS HARP.
O Harp ! that cheer'd my trembling limbs,
tion or of triumph he incidentally awakens our abhorrence or our admiration, and in what glowing letters he could write villanous or praiseworthy on such characters or actions as he thought fit to contemplate. His instances of these qualities, too, like our German author, are commonly selected from humble life; and there is no reader of poetry in this country whose heart has not beat with a livelier pulse in favour of honest and undisguised conduct, when he reads such verses as occur throughout the whole of the song,
“Is there for honest poverty,"
and in many other productions of this powerful author. I have only to regret that I have not been able to give them, in my poor version, the thousandth part of the heart-awakening energy which it breathes in the immortal verse of the original author."
Farewell for aye : a salt tear dims
Our lay of joy is past and gone, That once in vaulted halls we sung ; Alas ! our final peal hath rung Of mirth, high dames and lords among :
And now we gaze with sadness on The narrow home where song must end ; There no merry lays ascend Where my feeble footsteps wend.
Here on this oak that bourgeons fair, I'll hang thy wires of witching tone ; The passing breeze will cause them moan, And swell my requiem when I'm gone.
The traveller faint will list’ning stare, And marvel whence thy sounds proceed, The fairy king in buxom weed, Will leave his dance to hear thy rede.
But chief of all, the love-lorn maid, When dusky twilight clouds the sky, Eluding watchful guardian's eye Towards this sacred spot will hie.
Beneath thy oaks' embow'ring shade She'll muse, and count each straggling ray The moon sheds on its lovely way, Along thy frame of silvery grey.
She'll hear thee woo'd by wandering gale,
Oh ! she will hear thee oft bewail
The steel-clad knight as home he wends, From battle toils, and sieges dire, Will pause, and check his courser's fire, And under thy old oak retire :
For, lo ! thy song of triumph blends Its warlike notes with rustling breeze ; And falling, rising, through the trees, Mimes his old hall's festivities.
O Harp ! be still a little while,
Now, take with thee his last faint smile,
I N D E X.
A coggie o' ale, and a pickle ait meal,
Beyond Busaco's mountains dun,
W'. M'Laren, 332
Can a crown give content,
Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
384 W. Reader, Tannahill, 439 Byron,
298 Robt. Glassforl, 175
Gie mc a lass wi' a lump o' land,
23 Tannahill, 383 From “ Paul's Letters," 431 note B. Waller, 282 note Gott. Aug. Burder, 440
Happy the world in that blest age,
356 Have you not seen the timid tear, .
333 Have you sailed on the breast of the deep,
Blackwood's Mag., 392 Here, beneath this willow sleepeth,
Mrs Opie, . 134 Her hair was like the Cromla mist,
R. Allan, 22 Her kiss was soft and sweet,
James. Yool, 34 Here's to them that's awa,
265 Here's to thy health, my bonny lass,
68 How ardently my bosom glows,
James Yool, 56 How eerily, how drearily, how wearily to pine,
280 How green the fields, the flowers how fair,
note Patie Birnie, 289 How still is the night, and how death-like the gloom,
I come in the morn, I come in the hour,
227 Sir W. Raleigh, 415 James Yool, 109 R. Allan, 32 John Sim,