Woe for the man so indiscreet!

For bard would be a name unmeet

For self-sufficient sordid elf,

Whom none admires but he himself.
Unheard by him the scorner's tongue,
For still he capered and he sung,

With many an awkward gape the while,
And many a dark delighted smile,
Till round the throne the murmurs ran,
Till ladies blushed behind the fan;
And when the rustic ceased to sing,
A hiss of scorn ran round the ring.
Dark grinned the fool around the form,
With blood-shot eye, and face of storm;
Sprung from his seat, with awkward leap,
And muttered curses dark and deep.

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,
Save crusted rock, or warrior's cairn.'

Gentle his form, his manners meet,
His harp was soft, his voice was sweet;
He sung Lochryan's hapless maid,
In bloom of youth by love betrayed :
Turned from her lover's bower at last,
To brave the chilly midnight blast;
And bitterer far, the pangs to prove,
Of ruined fame, and slighted love;
A tender babe, her arms within,
Sobbing and "shivering at the chin."
No lady's cheek in court was dry,
So softly poured the melody.

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 his thin locks were long and pale.
Full hardly passed he through the throng,
Dragging on crutches, slow along,
His feeble and unhealthy frame,

And kindness welcomed as he came.
His unpresuming aspect mild,
Calm and benignant as a child,

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,
Where aspins in the moon-beam quake,
By mouldering pile, or mountain lake.

He deemed that fays and spectres wan
Held converse with the thoughts of man;
In dreams their future fates foretold,
And spread the death-flame on the wold ;

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,
These three lang nightis fra hame ?
Quhat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow,
Like clotis of the saut sea faem ?

"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.”—