BOAT SONG

From THE LADY OF THE LAKE

SIR WALTER SCOTT

AIL to the chief who in triumph advances! Honour'd and bless'd be the ever-green pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every Highland glen

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Sends our shout back again,

'Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,

Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripp'd every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.

Moor'd in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,

Echo his praise agen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!
Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green Pine!
O that the rosebud that graces yon islands,

Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honour'd and bless'd in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from her deepmost glen,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! iero!"

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JOCK OF HAZELDEAN

SIR WALTER SCOTT

HY weep ye by the tide, lady -
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride;
And ye shall be his bride, lady,
Sae comely to be seen

But

ay she loot the tears down fa’ For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And Lord of Langley-dale;

His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen "

But ay she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost of them a',

Shall ride our forest queen

But ay she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide;

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride
And dame and knight are there;
They sought her both by bower and ha';

The lady was not seen

She's o'er the Border, and awa'
Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

A

ALLEN-A-DALE

From ROKEBY

SIR WALTER SCOTT

LLEN-A-DALE has no fagot for burning,
Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning,
Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning,

Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning.
Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!
And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride,
And he views his domains upon Arkindale side;
The mere for his net, and the land for his game,
The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame;
Yet the fish of the lake, and the deer of the vale,
Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale!

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight,

Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord,

Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word,

And the best of our nobles his bonnet will vail,

Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale!