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In busy life his cares beguiled,

His heart was true, and fortune smiled.
But when the Royal Wake began,
Joyful he came the foremost man,

To see the matchless bard approved,

And list the strains he once had loved.

Two nights had passed, the bards had sungQueen Mary's harp from ceiling hung,

On which was graved her lovely mold,

Beset with crowns and flowers of gold;
And many a gem of dazzling dye
Glowed on that prize to minstrel's eye.

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 panoply is irksome grown,

His plumed helm hangs in the hall,
His broad claymore is berry brown.

No more his bugle's evening peal
Bids vassal arm and yeoman ride,

To drive the deer of Otterdale,

Or foray on the Border side.

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,

And eye of love, to him were dear! The smile that dimpled on her face

Was deadlier than the Border spear.

That form was not the poplar's stem, That smile the dawning's purple line;

Nor was that eye the dazzling gem

That glows adown the Indian mine.

But would you praise the poplar pale,
Or morn in wreath of roses drest;

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,
Bounds forth the foray swift as wind,

And Tushilaw and all his men

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,
O haste and let the father in!

And, lady, mark his locks so gray,
His beard so long, and colour wan;
O he has mourned for many a day,
And sorrowed o'er the sins of man!

And yet so stately is his mien,

His step so firm, and breast so bold; His brawny leg and form, I ween,

Are wonderous for a man so old.

Short was his greeting, short and low, His blessing short as prayer could be;

But oft he sighed, and boded woe,

And spoke of sin and misery.

To shrift, to shrift, now ladies all,

Your prayers and Ave Marias learn;

Haste, trembling, to the vesper hall,

For ah! the priest is dark and stern.

Short was the task of lady old,

Short as confession well could be;

The abbot's orisons were cold,

His absolutions frank and free.

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