Well pleased to see her songs the joy

Of that poor lonely shepherd boy.

"Tis said, and I believe the tale,

That many rhymes which still prevail,
Of genuine ardour, bold and free,
Were aye admired, and aye will be,
Had never been, or shortly stood,
But for that Wake at Holyrood.
Certes that many a bard of name,
Who there appeared and strove for fame,
No record names, nor minstrel's tongue;
Not even are known the lays they sung.

The fifth was from a western shore, Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr. Of peasant make, and doubtful mien, Affecting airs of proud disdain;

Wide curled his raven locks and high,

Dark was his visage, dark his eye,

That glanced around on dames and men

Like falcons on the cliffs of Ken.

Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit
Presumed at much, for all unfit.

No one could read the character,

If knave or genius writ was there;

But all supposed, from mien and frame, From Erin he an exile came.

With hollow voice, and harp ill strung, Some bungling parody he sung,

Well known to maid and matron gray,
Through all the glens of Galloway;
For often had he conned it there,
With simpering and affected air.
Listened the Court, with sidelong bend,

In wonder how the strain would end.

But long ere that it grew so plain,

They scarce from hooting could refrain;

And each to others 'gan to say,

"What good can come from Galloway ?"

F

Woe for the man so indiscreet!

For bard would be a name unmeet

For self-sufficient sordid elf,

Whom none admires but he himself.

Unheard by him the scorner's tongue,
For still he capered and he sung,

With many an awkward gape the while,
And many a dark delighted smile,

Till round the throne the murmurs ran,

Till ladies blushed behind the fan;
And when the rustic ceased to sing,
A hiss of scorn ran round the ring.
Dark grinned the fool around the form,
With blood-shot eye, and face of storm;
Sprung from his seat, with awkward leap,
And muttered curses dark and deep.

The sixth, too, from that country he, Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee; Where Summer spreads her purple screen O'er moor's where greensward ne'er was seen;

Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern,

Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn.

Gentle his form, his manners meet,
His harp was soft, his voice was sweet;
He sung Lochryan's hapless maid,
In bloom of youth by love betrayed :
Turned from her lover's bower at last,
To brave the chilly midnight blast ;
And bitterer far, the pangs to prove,
Of ruined fame, and slighted love;
A tender babe, her arms within,
Sobbing and "shivering at the chin."
No lady's cheek in court was dry,
So softly poured the melody.

The eighth was from the Leven coast : The rest who sung that night are lost.

Mounted the bard of Fife on high,

Bushy his beard, and wild his

eye :

His cheek was furrowed by the gale,
And his thin locks were long and pale.
Full hardly passed he through the throng,
Dragging on crutches, slow along,
His feeble and unhealthy frame,

And kindness welcomed as he came.
His unpresuming aspect mild,
Calm and benignant as a child,

Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh,

That more was there than met the eye.

Some wizard of the shore he seemed,

Who through the scenes of life had dreamed,
Of spells that vital life benumb,
Of formless spirits wandering dumb,
Where aspins in the moon-beam quake,
By mouldering pile, or mountain lake.

He deemed that fays and spectres wan Held converse with the thoughts of man; In dreams their future fates foretold,

And spread the death-flame on the wold;