Gae make out the lease, do not linger, There's joy in the bright blooming feature, The fond little heart that's our ain! LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON. Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, Their widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone; Yeoman and carbineer, Billman and halberdier; Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry. Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar, Wandale and Windermere, Lock the door, Lariston, hold them at bay. Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston? Beware of thy danger— Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh. Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, His hand grasp'd the sword with a nervous embrace; "Ah, welcome, brave foemen, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase! Lindhope and Sorby true, Sundhope and Milburn too, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight! "I've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray." Many a bold martial eye Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold! Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout, Lances and halberts in splinters were borne; Halberd and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere, While the Scots' shouts ascend, "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!" I HAE NAEBODY NOW. I HAE naebody now, I hae naebody now An' the wee bit tale o' news the while I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now There's naebody kens, there's naebody kens, That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love To see a flower in its vernal hour Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death, O, dinna break, my poor auld heart! For the unseen hand that threw the dart For though my darling can never return, I can follow the sooner away. THE MOON WAS A-WANING. THE moon was a-waning, The tempest was over; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover; But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, And embroider'd the cover; But his sheets are more white, Where the hill foxes wander. Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window; Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom ! How painful the task, The sad tidings to tell you! An orphan you were Ere this misery befell you; Where the dead-tapers hover, Lies the corpse of your lover! GOOD NIGHT, AND JOY. THE year is wearing to the wane, And dark the cloud comes down the shaw; |