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Fast fled the despoiler with howlings most dire, Fast followed the spirit with rapier of fire; Away, and away, through the silent saloon, And away, and away, by the light of the moon.
"To follow I tried, but sunk down at the door, Alas! from that trance that I ever awoke!
How wanders my mind! I shall see him no more, Till God shall yon gates everlasting unlock. My poor brow is open, 'tis burning with pain, O kiss it, sweet vision! O kiss it again!'
Now give me thine hand; I will fly! I will fly!Away, on the morn's dappled wing, to the sky.TM
€Df Conclusion. O! shepherd of Braco, look well to thy flock, The piles of Glen-Ardochy murmur and jar;The rook and the raven converse from the rock, The beasts of the forest are howling afar.
Shrill pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell,
The gray mountain-falcon accords with his yell;
Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne,
To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn.
Ah! shepherd, thy kids wander safe in the wood, Thy lambs feed in peace on Ben-Ardochy's brow;
Then why is the hoary cliff sheeted with blood?And what the poor carcase lies mangled below?
Oh hie thee away to thy hut at the fountain,
And dig a lone grave on the top of yon mountain;
But fly it for ever when falls the gray gloaming,
For there a grim phantom still naked is roaming.
Gardyn with stately step withdrew,
While plaudits round the circle flew.
Woe that the bard, whose thrilling song
Has poured from age to age along,
Should perish from the lists of fame,
And lose his only boon—a name.
Yet many a song of wonderous power,
Well known in cot and green-wood bower,
Wherever swells the shepherd's reed
On Yarrow's banks and braes of Tweed;
Yes, many a song of olden time,
Of rude array, and air sublime,
Though long on time's dark whirlpool tossed,
The song is saved, the bard is lost.
Yet have I weened, when these I sung
On Ettrick banks, while mind was young;
When on the eve their strains I threw,
And youths and maidens round me drew;
Or chaunted in the lonely glen,
Far from the haunts and eyes of men;
Yes, I have weened, with fondest sigh,
The spirit of the bard was nigh:
Swung by the breeze on braken pile,
Or hovering o'er me with a smile.
Would fancy still her dreams combine,
That spirit, too, might breathe on mine;
Well pleased to see her songs the joy
Of that poor lonely shepherd boy.
"Tis said, and I believe the tale,
That many rhymes which still prevail,
Of genuine ardour, bold and free,
Were aye admired, and aye will be,
Had never been, or shortly stood,
But for that Wake at Holyrood.
Certes that many a bard of name,
Who there appeared and strove for fame,
No record names, nor minstrel's tongue;
Not even are known the lays they sung.
The fifth was from a western shore,
Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr.
Of peasant make, and doubtful mien,
Affecting airs of proud disdain;
Wide curled his raven locks and high,
Dark was his visage, dark his eye.
That glanced around on dames and men
Like falcons on the cliffs of Ken.
Some ruffian mendicant, whose wit
Presumed at much, for all unfit .
No one could read the character,
If knave or genius writ was there;
But all supposed, from mien and frame,
From Erin he an exile came.
With hollow voice, and harp ill strung,
Some bungling parody he sung,
Well known to maid and matron gray,
Through all the glens of Galloway;
For often had he conned it there,
With simpering and affected air.
Listened the Court, with sidelong bend,
In wonder how the strain would end.
But long ere that it grew so plain,
They scarce from hooting could refrain;
And each to others 'gan to say,
"What good can come from Galloway?"