'Twas the last night of hope and fear, That bards could sing, or Sovereign hear; And just ere rose the Christmas sun, The envied prize was lost and won. The bard that night who foremost came Was not enrolled, nor known his name ; A youth he was of manly mold, Gentle as lamb, as lion bold; But his fair face, and forehead high, Glowed with intrusive modesty. 'Twas said by bank of southland stream Glided his youth in soothing dream; The harp he loved, and wont to stray Far to the wilds and woods away, And sing to brooks that gurgled bye Of maiden's form and maiden's eye; Deep in the shade his harp he cast; In busy life his cares beguiled, His heart was true, and fortune smiled. To see the matchless bard approved, And list the strains he once had loved. Two nights had passed, the bards had sung- Beset with crowns and flowers of gold; The youth had heard each minstrel's strain, And, fearing northern bard would gain, To try his youthful skill was moved, Not for himself, but friends he loved. Mary Scott. THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG. Lord Pringle's steed neighs in the stall, His plumed helm hangs in the hall, No more his bugle's evening peal To drive the deer of Otterdale, Instead of hoop and battle knell, Of warrior's song, and revel free, Is heard the lute's voluptuous swell Within the halls of Torwoodlee. Sick lies his heart without relief; "Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe, For daughter of a froward chief, A freebooter, his mortal foe. But O, that maiden's form of grace, eye of love, to him were dear! The smile that dimpled on her face And Was deadlier than the Border spear. That form was not the poplar's stem, Nor was that eye the dazzling gem But would you praise the poplar pale, The fairest flower that woos the vale, Or down that clothes the solan's breast; P A thousand times beyond, above, What rapt enthusiast ever saw; Compare them to that mould of loveYoung Mary Scott of Tushilaw! The war-flame glows on Ettrick pen, Have left their homes afar behind. O lady, lady, learn thy creed, And mark the watch-dog's boist'rous din; The abbot comes with book and bead, And, lady, mark his locks so gray, And sorrowed o'er the sins of man! |