Loud were the shouts of Highland chief

The Lowlanders were dumb with grief;

And the

poor Bard of Ettrick stood

Like statue pale, in moveless mood;
Like ghost, which oft his eyes had seen
At gloaming in his glens so green.

Queen Mary saw the minstrel's pain,
And bade from bootless grief refrain.

She said a boon to him should fall
Worth all the harps in royal hall;
Of Scottish song a countless store,
Precious remains of minstrel lore,
And cottage, by a silver rill,
Should all reward his rustic skill:
Did other gift his bosom claim,
He needed but that gift to name.

"O, my fair Queen," the minstrel said, With faultering voice and hanging head,

"Your cottage keep, and minstrel lore

Grant me a harp, I ask no more.

From thy own hand a lyre I crave,

That boon alone my heart can save."

"Well hast thou asked; and be it known,

I have a harp of old renown

Hath many an ardent wight beguiled;

"Twas framed by wizard of the wild,

And will not yield one measure bland
Beneath a skilless stranger hand;
But once her powers by progress found,
O there is magic in the sound!

"When worldly woes oppress thy heartAnd thou and all must share a partShould scorn be cast from maiden's-eye, Should friendship fail, or fortune fly, Steal with thy harp to lonely brake, Her wild, her soothing numbers wake,

And soon corroding cares shall cease,
And passion's host be lulled to peace;
Angels a gilded screen shall cast,
That cheers the future, veils the past.

"That harp will make the elves of eve Their dwelling in the moon-beam leave, And ope thine eyes by haunted tree Their glittering tiny forms to see. The flitting shades that woo the glen "Twill shape to forms of living men, To forms on earth no more you see, Who once were loved, and aye will be; And holiest converse you may prove Of things below and things above.”

"That is, that is the harp for me!" Said the rapt bard in ecstacy;

"This soothing, this exhaustless store,

Grant me, my Queen, I ask no more."

O, when the weeping minstrel laid

The relic in his old gray plaid,
When Holyrood he left behind

To gain his hills of mist and wind,
Never was hero of renown,

Or monarch prouder of his crown.
He tript the vale, he climbed the coomb,
The mountain breeze began to boom;
Aye when the magic chords it rung,
He raised his voice and blithely sung.
"Hush, my wild harp, thy notes forbear;
No blooming maids nor elves are here:
Forbear a while that witching tone,
Thou must not, canst not sing alone.
When Summer flings her watchet screen

At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green,

Thy notes shall many a heart beguile; Young Beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile,

And fairies trip it merrily

Around my royal harp and me."

Long has that harp of magic tone
To all the minstrel world been known:
Who has not heard her witching lays,

Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes?
But that sweet bard, who sung and played
Of many a feat and Border raid,

Of

many a knight and lovely maid,

When forced to leave his harp behind,

Did all her tuneful chords unwind;

And

many ages past and came

Ere man so well could tune the same.

Bangour the daring task essayed, Not half the chords his fingers played; Yet even then some thrilling lays Bespoke the harp of ancient days.

Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill Flung some strained notes along the hill; His was some lyre from lady's hall,

And not the mountain harp at all.