But then, though dawning blasts were keen, Scotland's high dames you might have seen,

Ere from the banquet hall they rose,

Shift their laced shoes and silken hose;

Their broidered kirtles round them throw,

And wade their way through wreaths of snow,

Leaning on Lord or lover's arm,

Cheerful and reckless of all harm.

Vanished those hardy times outright;

So is our ancient Scottish might.

Sweet be her home, admired her charms,

Bliss to her couch in lover's arms,

I bid in every minstrel's name,

I bid to every lovely dame,

That ever gave one hour away
To cheer the bard or list his lay!

To all who love the raptures high

Of Scottish song and minstrelsy,

Till next the night, in sable shroud, Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood, That rival minstrels' songs I borrow-I bid a hearty kind good-morrow.

END OF NIGHT THE FIRST.

THE

QUEEN'S WAKE.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

H