On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii, armed with fiery spears.

"T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alywn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine,

Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the Forest fair.

Sir Walter Scott.

"0,

Ettrick, the River.

THE PALMER.

OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind!

The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.

"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the king's deer,
Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.

"A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;

O, open, for Our Lady's sake!
A pilgrim's blessing win!

"I'll give you pardons from the Pope,

And reliques from o'er the sea,

Or if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.

"The hare is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind;

An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.

"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.

"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which I knock in vain;
The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.

66

'Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant, When old and frail you be,

You never may the shelter want
That's now denied to me."

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain;

But oft, amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again;

For lo, when through the vapors dank
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.

Sir Walter Scott.

ETTRICK.

MURMURING waters!

Have ye no message for me?
Ye come from the hills of the west,
Where his step wanders free.
Did he not whisper my name?
Did he not utter one word,

And trust that its sound o'er the rush
Of thy streams might be heard?

O murmuring waters!

The sounds of the moorlands I hear, The scream of the heron and the eagle, The bell of the deer;

The rustling of heather and fern,

The shiver of grass on the lea, The sigh of the wind from the hill, Hast thou no voice for me?

O murmuring waters!

Flow on, ye have no voice for me;

Bear the wild songs of the hills

To the depths of the sea!

Bright stream, from the founts of the west Rush on with thy music and glee!

O, to be borne to my rest

In the cold waves with thee!

Lady John Scott.

SLOW

Evan, the River.

EVAN BANKS.

LOW spreads the gloom my soul desires,
The sun from India's shore retires;

To Evan banks with temperate ray,
Home of my youth, it leads the day.
O banks to me forever dear!

O stream whose murmurs still I hear!
All, all my hopes of bliss reside
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde.

And she, in simple beauty drest,
Whose image lives within my breast;
Who trembling heard my parting sigh,
And long pursued me with her eye!
Does she, with heart unchanged as mine,
Oft in thy vocal bowers recline?
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide,
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde.

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound!
Ye lavish woods that wave around,

And o'er the stream your shadows throw,
Which sweetly winds so far below;
What secret charm to memory brings
All that on Evan's border springs?
Sweet banks! ye bloom by Mary's side;
Blest stream! she views thee haste to Clyde.

Can all the wealth of India's coast
Atone for years in absence lost;
Return, ye moments of delight,
With richer treasure bless my sight!
Swift from this desert let me part,
And fly to meet a kindred heart!
Nor more may aught my steps divide

From that dear stream which flows to Clyde.

Helen Maria Williams.

Fife.

FIFE, AN' A' THE LAND ABOUT IT.

NIFE, an' a' the land about it,

FIFE

Fife, an' a' the land about it;
May health an' peace an' plenty glad
Fair Fife, an' a' the land about it.

We'll raise the song on highest key,
Through every grove till echo shout it;