Woe for the man so indiscreet! For bard would be a name unmeet For self-sufficient sordid elf, Whom none admires but he himself. With many an awkward gape the while, The sixth, too, from that country he, Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Dee; Where Summer spreads her purple screen O'er moor's where greensward ne'er was seen; Nor shade, o'er all the prospect stern, Gentle his form, his manners meet, The eighth was from the Leven coast : The rest who sung that night are lost. Mounted the bard of Fife on high, Bushy his beard, and wild his eye : His cheek was furrowed by the gale, And kindness welcomed as he came. Yet spoke to all that viewed him nigh, That more was there than met the eye. Some wizard of the shore he seemed, Who through the scenes of life had dreamed, Of spells that vital life benumb, Of formless spirits wandering dumb, He deemed that fays and spectres wan 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, "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.”— |