He has broke three ribs in that ane's side, But and his collar-bane; He's laid him twa-fald ower his steed- “Oh, is there na a bonnie bird, Could flee away to my mother's bower, The starling flew to his mother's window- It whistled and it sang; They made a rod o' the hazel bush, Then out and spak his auld mother, "Ye wadna be warn'd, my son Johnie, "Aft hae I brought to Breadislee "But wae betyde that silly auld carle! For the highest tree in Merriemass Now Johnie's gude bend bow is broke, 1 Refrain. * Spoil OSCAR OF ALVA. BY LORD BYRON. THE catastrophe of this ballad was suggested by the story of "Jeronyme and Lorenzo," in the first volume of Schiller's Armenian: or, The Ghost-Seer. It also bears some resemblance to a scene in the third act of " Macbeth." How sweetly shines through azure skies, The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore; But often has yon rolling moon On Alva's casques of silver play'd; While many an eye which ne'er again Once to those eyes the lamp of Love, Faded is Alva's noble race, And gray her towers are seen afar; But who was last of Alva's clan? Why grows the moss on Alva's stone? Her towers resound no steps of man, They echo to the gale alone. And when that gale is fierce and high, And vibrates o'er the mouldering wall. Yes, when the eddying tempest sighs, No more his plumes of sable wave. Fair shone the sun on Oscar's birth, They feast upon the mountain deer, And they who heard the war-notes wild, Hoped that one day the pibroch's strain Should play before the hero's child While he should lead the tartan train. Another year is quickly past, And Angus hails another son; His natal day is like the last, Nor soon the jocund feast was done. Taught by their sire to bend the bow, But ere their years of youth are o'er, Dark was the flow of Oscar's hair, But Oscar own'd a hero's soul, His dark eye shone through beams of truth; Allan had early learn'd control, And smooth his words had been from youth. Both, both were brave: the Saxon spear While Allan's soul belied his form, From high Southannon's distant tower And Oscar claim'd the beauteous bride, Hark to the pibroch's pleasing note! See how the heroes' blood-red plumes It is not war their aid demands, The pibroch plays the song of peace; To Oscar's nuptials throng the bands, Nor yet the sounds of pleasure cease. But where is Oscar? sure 'tis late: Is this a bridegroom's ardent flame? While thronging guests and ladies wait, Nor Oscar nor his brother came. At length young Allan join'd the bride; "With me he roved not o'er the glade. "Perchance, forgetful of the day, "Oh, no!" the anguish'd sire rejoin'd, "Nor chase nor wave my boy delay; Would he to Mora seem unkind? Would aught to her impede his way? "Oh, search, ye chiefs! oh, search, around! Allan, with these through Alva fly; Till Oscar, till my son is found, Haste, haste, nor dare attempt reply." All is confusion-through the vale It breaks the stillness of the night, But echoes through her shades in vain, It sounds through morning's misty light, But Oscar comes not o'er the plain. Three days, three sleepless nights, the Chief Then hope is lost; in boundless grief, Oscar, my son !-thou God of heaven, "Yes, on some desert rocky shore My Oscar's whiten'd bones must lie; Then grant, thou God! I ask no more, With him his frantic sire may die! |