The bare-foot maid, of rosy hue,

Dares from the heath-flower brush the dew,

To meet her love in moon-light still,

By flowery den or tinkling rill;

And well dares she till midnight stay,

Among the coils of fragrant hay.

True, some weak shepherds, gone astray,

As fell the dusk of Hallow-day,

Have heard the tinkling sound aloof,

And gentle tread of horse's hoof;

And flying swifter than the wind,
Left all their scattered flocks behind.

True, when the evening tales are told,
When winter nights are dark and cold,
The boy dares not to barn repair
Alone, to say his evening prayer;
Nor dare the maiden ope the door,
Unless her lover walk before;

Then well can counterfeit the fright,

If star-beam on the water light;

And to his breast in terror cling,

For "such a dread and dangerous thing!"

O, Ettrick! shelter of my youth! Thou sweetest glen of all the south! Thy fairy tales, and songs of yore,

Shall never fire my

bosom more.

Thy winding glades, and mountains wild, The scenes that pleased me when a child, Each verdant vale, and flowery lea,

Still in my midnight dreams I see;

And waking oft, I sigh for thee;

Thy hapless bard, though forced to roam

Afar from thee without a home,

Still there his glowing breast shall turn,

Till thy green bosom fold his urn.

Then, underneath thy mountain stone,

Shall sleep unnoticed and unknown.

When ceased the shepherd's simple lay,

With careless mien he lounged away.

No bow he deigned, nor anxious looked

How the gay throng their minstrel brooked.

No doubt within his bosom grew,

That to his skill the prize was due.

Well might he hope, for while he sung,
Louder and louder plaudits rung;

And when he ceased his numbers wild,
Fair Royalty approved and smiled.
Long had the bard, with hopes elate,
Sung to the low, the gay, the great;
And once had dared, at flatterer's call,
To tune his harp in Branxholm hall;
But nor his notes of soothing sound,

Nor zealous word of bard renowned,

Might those persuade, that worth could be

Inherent in such mean degree.

But when the smile of Sovereign fair

Attested genuine nature there,

Throbbed high with rapture every breast,

And all his merit stood confest.

Different the next the herald named ;

Warrior he was, in battle maimed,

When Lennox, on the downs of Kyle,
O'erthrew Maconnel and Argyle.

Unable more the sword to wield
With dark Clan-Alpine in the field,
Or rouse the dun deer from her den
With fierce Macfarlane and his men;
He strove to earn a minstrel name,
And fondly nursed the sacred flame.
Warm was his heart, and bold his strain;
Wild fancies in his moody brain
Gambolled, unbridled, and unbound,
Lured by a shade, decoyed by sound.

In tender age, when mind was free,

As standing by his nurse's knee,
He heard a tale, so passing strange,

Of injured spirit's cool revenge,

It chilled his heart with blasting dread,
Which never more that bosom fled.
When passion's flush had fled his eye,
And gray hairs told that youth was bye,
Still quaked his heart at bush or stone,
As wandering in the gloom alone.

Where foxes roam, and eagles rave, And dark woods round Ben-Lomond wave, Once on a night, a night of dread!

He held convention with the dead;

Brought warnings to the house of death,
And tidings from a world beneath.

Loud blew the blast-the evening came, The way was long, the minstrel lame; The mountain's side was dern with oak, Darkened with pine, and ribbed with rock; Blue billows round its base were driven, Its top was steeped in waves of heaven.