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The half-faced moon shone dim and pale,
And glanced against the whitened sail;
But on that ruddy beacon-light

Each steersman kept the helm aright,
And oft, for such the king's command,
That all at once might reach the strand,
From boat to boat loud shout and hail
Warned them to crowd or slacken sail.
South and by west the armada bore,
And near at length the Carrick shore.
As less and less the distance grows,
High and more high the beacon rose;
The light, that seemed a twinkling star,
Now blazed, portentous, fierce, and far.
Dark-red the heaven above it glowed,
Dark-red the sea beneath it flowed,
Red rose the rocks on ocean's brim,
In blood-red light her islets swim;
Wild scream the dazzled sea-fowl gave,
Dropped from their crags on plashing wave,
The deer to distant covert drew,
The black-cock deemed it day, and crew.
Like some tall castle given to flame,
O'er half the land the lustre came.
"Now, good my liege, and brother sage,
What think ye of mine elfin page?
"Row on!" the noble king replied,
"We'll learn the truth whate'er betide;
Yet sure the beadsman and the child
Could ne'er have waked that beacon wild."

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Sir Walter Scott.

Castell Gloom.

CASTELL GLOOM

CASTLE GLOOM, better known as Castle Campbell, was a residence of the noble family of Argyll, from the middle of the fifteenth till the middle of the seventeenth century, when it was burned by the Marquis of Montrose. The castle is situated on a promontory of the Ochil hills, near the village of Dollar, in Clackmannanshire, and has long been in the ruinous condition described in the song.

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CASTELL GLOOM! thy strength is gone,

The green grass o'er thee growin';

On hill of Care thou art alone,

The Sorrow round thee flowin'.

O Castell Gloom! on thy fair wa's
Nae banners now are streamin',

The houlet flits amang thy ha's,

And wild birds there are screamin'.

O, mourn the woe, O, mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;

O, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,
And mourn the great Montrose.

Here ladies bright were aften seen,
Here valiant warriors trod;
And here great Knox has aften been,
Wha feared naught but his God!

But a' are gane! the gude, the great,
And naething now remains,

But ruin sittin' on thy wa's,
And crumblin' down the stanes.
O, mourn the woe, etc.

Thy lofty Ochils bright did glow,
Though sleepin' was the sun;
But mornin's light did sadly show,
What ragin' flames had done.
O, mirk, mirk was the misty cloud,
That hung o'er thy wild wood!
Thou wert like beauty in a shroud,

And all was solitude.

O, mourn the woe, O, mourn the crime,
Frae civil war that flows;

O, mourn, Argyll, thy fallen line,

And mourn the great Montrose.

Carolina, Baroness Nairne.

0,

Castlecary.

MARY OF CASTLECARY.

SAW ye my wee thing? saw ye my ain thing? Saw ye my true-love, down on yon lea? Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloamin' ? Sought she the burnie whare flowers the haw-tree? Her hair it is lint-white; her skin it is milk-white; Dark is the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;

Red, red her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses :
Whare could my wee thing wander frae me?"

"I saw na your wee thing, I saw na your ain thing,
Nor saw your true-love, down on yon lea ;
But I met my bonnie thing, late in the gloamin',
Down by the burnie whare flowers the haw-tree.
Her hair it was lint-white; her skin it was milk-white;
Dark was the blue o' her saft rolling e'e;
Red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses:
Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me!"

"It was na my wee thing, it was na my ain thing, It was na my true-love, ye met by the tree: Proud is her leal heart, modest her nature;

She never lo'ed ony till ance she lo'ed me. Her name it is Mary; she 's frae Castlecary; Aft has she sat, when a bairn, on my knee: Fair as your face is, were 't fifty times fairer, Young bragger, she ne'er would gi'e kisses to thee."

"It was, then, your Mary; she's frae Castlecary; It was, then, your true-love I met by the tree; · Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature,

Sweet were the kisses that she ga'e to me." Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood-red his check grew; Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling c'e, "Ye's rue sair, this morning, your boasts and your scorning;

Defend ye, fause traitor! fu' loudly you lee."

"Awa' wi' beguiling," cried the youth, smiling. Aff went the bounet; the lint-white locks flee; The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, Fair stood the lo'ed maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. "Is it my wee thing? is it my ain thing?

Is it my true-love here that I see?"

"O Jamie, forgi'e me! your heart's constant to me; I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee!"

Hector Macneill.

Castle-Gordon.

CASTLE-GORDON.

TREAMS that glide in Orient plains,
Never bound by winter's chains;

Glowing here on golden sands,
There commixed with foulest stains,

From tyranny's empurpled bands;
These, their richly gleaming waves,
I leave to tyrants and their slaves;
Give me the stream that sweetly laves
The banks by Castle-Gordon.

Spicy forests, ever gay,

Shading from the burning ray

Helpless wretches sold to toil,
Or the ruthless native's way,

Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil;

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