Walter Scott (Sir)

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh The sun has left the lea, The orange-flower perfumes the bower,

An hour with thee! When earliest day Dapples with gold the eastern gray, Oh, what can frame my mind to bear

I. Birds of omen dark and foul, Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,

Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun, Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun, Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life

As lords their labourers' hire delay, Fate quits our toil with hopes to come, Which, if far short of present pay,

From a rude isle, his ruder lineage came. The spark, that, from a suburb hovel's hearth Ascending, wraps some capital in flame,

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Clavers who spoke. 'Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me,

March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order! March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, "This is my own, my native land!"

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there,

The Abbot on the threshold stood, And in his hand the holy rood: Then, cloaking hate with fiery zeal,

Addressed to the Right Hon. Lady Anne Hamilton. When princely Hamilton's abode Ennobled Cadyow's Gothic towers,

The glowing censers, and their rich perfume; The splendid vestments, and the sounding choir; The gentle sigh of soul-subduing piety;

Farewell to Northmaven, Grey Hillswicke, farewell! The storms on thy haven,

This ae nighte, this ae nighte, Every nighte and alle; Fire and sleete and candle lighte,

Farewell! Farewell! the voice you hear, Has left its last soft tone with you, Its next must join the seaward cheer,

He is gone on the mountain, He is lost to the forest, Like a summer-dried fountain,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower,

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The sun upon the lake is low, The wild birds hush their song, The hills have evening's deepest glow,

Young men will love thee more fair and more fast; Heard ye so merry the little bird sing? Old men's love the longest will last,

Viewless essence, thin and bare, Well nigh melted into air, Still with fondness hovering near

Chorus Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again!

Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast

The herring loves the merry moon-light, The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang,

Enchantress, farewell, who so oft hast decoy'd me, At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam, Where the forester, 'lated, with wonder espied me

There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale, But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael. A stranger commanded '- it sunk on the land,

Tho' right be aft put down by strength, As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu' cause at length

Frederick leaves the land of France, Homeward hastes his steps to measure, Careless casts the parting glance

Dust unto dust, To this all must; The tenant hath resign'd

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu Pibroch of Donuil Wake thy wild voice anew,

"O hone a rie'! O hone a rie!" The pride of Albin's line is o'er, And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;

Harp of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark, On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glow-worm lights her spark,

I climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

Bring the bowl which you boast, Fill it up to the brim; 'Tis to him we love most,

The toils are pitched, and the stakes are set, Ever sing merrily, merrily; The bows they bend, and the knives they whet,

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day; All the jolly chase is here

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land!'

It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight,

It was an English ladye bright, (The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,) And she would marry a Scottish knight,

"Why weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide? I'll wed ye to my youngest son,

To an Oak Tree, In the Churchyard of --, In the Highlands of Scotland, Said to Mark the Grave of Captain Wogan, Killed in 1649. Emblem of England's ancient faith, Full proudly may thy branches wave,

O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best; And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none,

In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed; In war, he mounts the warrior's steed; In halls, in gay attire is seen;

Look not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens;

O hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight, Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; The woods and the glens, from the towers which we see,

The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae, And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day; Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!

MacLeod's wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,

And what though winter will pinch severe Through locks of grey and a cloak that's old? Yet keep up thy heart, bold cavalier,

When the heathen trumpet's clang Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, Veiled nun and friar grey

I. March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order!

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

I. Day set on Norham's castled steep, And Tweed's fair river, broad and deep,

I. The breeze, which swept away the smoke, Round Norham Castle rolled,

I. The livelong day Lord Marmion rode: The mountain path the Palmer showed,

I. Eustace, I said, did blithely mark The first notes of the merry lark.

I. The train has left the hills of Braid; The barrier guard have open made

I. While great events were on the gale, And each hour brought a varying tale,

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear: Late, gazing down the steepy linn

The scenes are desert now, and bare, Where flourished once a forest fair When these waste glens with copse were lined,

Like April morning clouds, that pass, With varying shadow, o'er the grass, And imitate, on field and furrow,

An ancient minstrel sagely said, "Where is the life which late we led?" That motley clown in Arden wood,

When dark December glooms the day, And takes our autumn joys away; When short and scant the sunbeam throws,

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill; But let it whistle as it will, We'll keep our Christmas merry still.

Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!

To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears,

Hear what Highland Nora said, "The Earlie's son I will not wed, Should all the race of nature die,

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun 'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, And seek the heath-frequenting brood

So goodbye, Mrs. Brown, I am going out of town, Over dale, over down,

I. Merrily swim we, the moon shines bright, Both current and ripple are dancing in light.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, 'This is my own, my native land!'

To mute and to material things New life revolving summer brings; The genial call dead Nature hears,

Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil.

Proud Maisie is in the wood, Walking so early; Sweet Robin sits on the bush,

When Israel, of the Lord beloved, Out from the land of bondage came, Her father's God before her moved,

I. The Moon is in her summer glow, But hoarse and high the breezes blow,

I. Far in the chambers of the west, The gale had sigh'd itself to rest;

I. The hunting tribes of air and earth Respect the brethren of their birth;

I. When Denmark's raven soar'd on high, Triumphant through Northumbrian sky,

I. The sultry summer day is done, The western hills have hid the sun,

I. The summer sun, whose early power Was wont to gild Matilda's bower,

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine: "And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven," was still the Soldier's prayer;

O listen, listen, ladies gay! No haughty feat of arms I tell; Soft is the note, and sad the lay

Soft spread the southern sumer night Her veil of darksome blue; Ten thousand stars combined to light

Whet the bright steel, Sons of the White Dragon! Kindle the torch,

Soldier, wake, the day is peeping, Honour ne'er was won in sleeping, Never when the sunbeams still

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower,

Yes, thou mayst sigh, And look once more at all around, At stream and bank, and sky and ground.

Farewell, merry maidens, to song, and to laugh, For the brave lads of Westra are bound to the Haaf; And we must have labour, and hunger, and pain,

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere yon boune ye to rest, Ever beware that your couch be bless'd; Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,

The Forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer,

1. I'll give thee, good fellow, a twelvemonth or twain, To search Europe through, from Byzantium to Spain;

'Twas when among our linden-trees The bees had housed in swarms, (And grey-hair'd peasants say that these

Knight And Wamba There came three merry men from south, west, and north, Ever more sing the roundelay;

Introduction. I. Come Lucy! while 'tis morning hour

1. High deeds achieved of knightly fame, From Palestine the champion came;

I. Night and morning were at meeting Over Waterloo;

I. Dinas Emlinn, lament; for the moment is nigh, When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay, Wrestling thus with earth and clay? From the body pass away;

The baron of Smaylho'me rose with day, He spurr'd his courser on, Without stop or stay, down the rocky way,

I. Fair Brussels, thou art far behind, Though, lingering on the morning wind,

The Pope he was saying the high, high mass, All on Saint Peter's day, With the power, to him given, by the saints of heaven,

The Combat. I. Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light,

The Chase. Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring

The Prophecy. I. The rose is fairest when 't is budding new,

The Island. I. At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing,

The Guard-room. I. The sun, awakening, through the smoky air

The Gathering. I. Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore,

Introduction. Harp of the North! that mouldering long hast hung On the witch-elm that shades Saint Fillan's spring

I. At morn the black-cock trims his jetty wing, 'T is morning prompts the linnet's blithest lay,

I. Time rolls his ceaseless course. The race of yore, Who danced our infancy upon their knee,

I. The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;

I. Fair as the earliest beam of eastern light, When first, by the bewildered pilgrim spied,

I. The sun, awakening, through the smoky air Of the dark city casts a sullen glance,

Ah, poor Louise! the livelong day She roams from cot to castle gay; And still her voice and viol say,

Introduction. The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old;

I. If thou would'st view fair Melrose aright, Go visit it by the pale moonlight;

I. And said I that my limbs were old, And said I that my blood was cold,

I Sweet Teviot! on thy silver tide The glaring bale-fires blaze no more;

I Call it not vain; they do not err, Who say, that when the Poet dies,

I Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,

Introduction Autumn departs, but still his mantle's fold Rests on the groves of noble Somerville,

I. Fill the bright goblet, spread the festive board! Summon the gay, the noble, and the fair!

I. Hast thou not mark'd, when o'er thy startled head Sudden and deep the thunder-peal has roll'd,

I. Stranger! if e'er thine ardent step hath traced The northern realms of ancient Caledon,

I. On fair Loch-Ranza stream'd the early day, Thin wreaths of cottage-smoke are upward curl'd

I. O who, that shared them, ever shall forget The emotions of the spirit-rousing time,

O lovers' eyes are sharp to see, And lovers' ears in hearing; And love in life's extremity

O, low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

I. O, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed he lay;

I. Red glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, And hammers din, and anvil sounds,

November's hail-cloud drifts away, November's sunbeam wan Looks coldly on the castle grey,

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there,

"O, open the door, some pity to show, Keen blows the northern wind! The glen is white with the drifted snow,

O will ye hear a mirthful bourd? Or will ye hear of courtesie? Or will ye hear how a gallant lord

In Imitation of An Old English Poem My wayward fate I needs must plain, Though bootless be the theme;

Once again, but how chang'd since my wand'rings began I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Clanbrasil resound to the roar

CANTO I.XIX. The Lady sought the lofty hall, Where many a bold retainer lay,

A weary lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,

The sun is rising dimly red, The wind is wailing low and dread; From his cliff the eagle sallies,

Stern eagle of the far north-west, Thou that bearest in thy grasp the thunderbolt, Thou whose rushing pinions stir ocean to madness,

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still,

Glowing with love, on fire for fame A Troubadour that hated sorrow Beneath his lady's window came,

Woman's faith, and woman's trust Write the characters in the dust; Stamp them on the running stream,

The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazel mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower

Introduction. I. Lives there a strain, whose sounds of mounting fire

The Wildgrave winds his bugle-horn, To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo! His fiery courser snuffs the morn,

KNIGHT AND WAMBA. There came three merry men from south, west, and north, Ever more sing the roundelay;

Part First Ancient True Thomas lay on Huntlie bank;

Take these flowers which, purple waving, On the ruin'd rampart grew, Where, the sons of freedom braving,

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove,

Good evening, Sir Priest, and so late as you ride, With your mule so fair, and your mantle so wide; But ride you through valley, or ride you o'er hill.

Twist ye, twine ye! even so, Mingle shades of joy and woe, Hope, and fear, and peace, and strife,

1. Whet the bright steel, Sons of the White Dragon!

Thy hue, dear pledge, is pure and bright As in that well-remember'd night When first thy mystic braid was wove,

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,

Late, when the Autumn evening fell On Mirkwood Mere's romantic dell, The lake return'd, in chasten'd gleam,

Where shall the lover rest Whom the fates sever From the true maiden's breast,

"Why sit'st thou by that ruin'd hall, Thou aged carle so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall,

I. From heavy dreams fair Helen rose, And eyed the dawning red: