Or flagged at eve each restless wing,

In dells their vesper hymns to sing.

Such was our bard, such were his lays : And long by green Benarty's base, His wild wood notes, from ivy cave,

Had waked the dawning from the wave. At evening fall, in lonesome dale,

He kept strange converse with the gale; Held worldly pomp in high derision, And wandered in a world of vision.

Of mountain ash his harp was framed, The brazen chords all trembling flamed, As in a rugged northern tongue,

This mad unearthly song he sung.

The Witch of Fife.

THE EIGHTH BARD'S SONG.

"Quhare haif

ye

been, ye ill womyne,

These three lang nightis fra hame ?

Quhat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow,

Like clotis of the saut sea faem?

"It fearis me muckil ye

haif seen

Quhat good man never knew ;

It fearis me muckil ye haif been

Quhare the gray

cock never crew.

"But the spell may crack, and the brydel breck,

Then sherpe yer werde will be;

Ye had better sleipe in yer bed at hame,

Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me."

Sit dune, sit dune, my leil auld man,

Sit dune, and listin to me;

I'll gar the hayre stand on yer crown,

And the cauld sweit blind

yer e'e.

'But tell nae wordis, my gude auld man,

Tell never word again;

Or deire shall be yer courtisye,

And driche and sair yer pain.

The first leet night, quhan the new moon set, Quhan all was douffe and mirk,

We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif,

And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk.

• Some horses ware of the brume-cow framit, And some of the greine bay tree;

But mine was made of ane humloke schaw,
And a stout stallion was he.

We raide the tod doune on the hill,

The martin on the law;

And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe,

And forcit him doune to fa.'

"Quhat guid was that, ye ill womyne?

Quhat guid was that to thee?

Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame, yer deire littil bairnis and me."

Wi'

And aye we raide, and se merrily we raide,
Throw the merkist gloffis of the night;

And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode,

Till we cam to the Lommond height.

'And quhen we cam to the Lommond height,

Se lythlye we lychtid doune ;

And we drank fra the hornis that never grew,

The beer that was never browin.

• Then

up

there raise ane wee wee man,

Franethe the moss-gray stane;

His fece was wan like the collifloure,

For he nouthir had blude nor bane.

He set ane reid-pipe till his muthe,

And he playit se bonnilye,

Till the gray curlew, and the black-cock, flew

To listen his melodye.

'It rang se sweet through the grein Lommond, That the nycht-winde lowner blew ;

And it soupit alang the Loch Leven,
And wakinit the white sea-mew.

'It rang se sweet through the grein Lommond,

Se sweitly butt and se shill,

That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis,

And dancit on the mydnycht hill.