SIR WALTER SCOTT, born 1771, died 1832. From "Marmion."

WHERE shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever

From his true maiden's breast,

Parted for ever?

Where through groves deep and high

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die

Under the willow.

Eleu loro.

Soft shall be his pillow.

There, through the summer day,

Cool streams are laving;
There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, oh, never!

Eleu loro,

Never, oh, never!

Where shall the traitor rest,
He the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast,
Ruin, and leave her?
In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,
Where mingles war's rattle
With groans of the dying.
Eleu loro.

There shall he be lying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap

O'er the false-hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap
Ere life be parted;
Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it

Never, oh, never!

Eleu loro.

Never, oh, never!

THE CAPTIVE HUNTSMAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

My hawk is tired of perch and hood,
My idle greyhound loathes his food,
My horse is weary of his stall,
And I am sick of captive thrall.
I wish I were as I have been,
Hunting the hart in forests green,
With bended bow and bloodhound free,
For that's the life is meet for me.

I hate to learn the ebb of time
From yon dull steeple's drowsy chime,

Or mark it as the sunbeams crawl
Inch after inch along the wall.
The lark was wont my matin ring,
The sable rook my vespers sing;
These towers, although a king's they be,
Have not a hall of joy for me.

No more at dawning morn I rise,
And sun myself in Ellen's eyes,
Drive the fleet deer the forest through,
And homeward wend with evening dew;
A blythesome welcome blythely meet,
And lay my trophies at her feet,
While fled the eve on wing of glee-
That life is lost to love and me.

HE IS GONE ON THE MOUNTAIN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. From the "Lady of the Lake."

HE is gone on the mountain,
He is lost to the forest,

Like a summer-dried fountain,

When our need was the sorest.

The font, re-appearing,

From the rain-drops shall borrow;

But to us comes no cheering,

To Duncan no morrow!

The hand of the reaper

Takes the ears that are hoary;

But the voice of the weeper

Wails manhood in glory.
The autumn winds rushing

Waft the leaves that are searest ;

But our flower was in flushing

When blighting was nearest.

Fleet foot on the correi,
Sage counsel in cumber,
Red hand in the foray,

How sound is thy slumber!
Like the dew on the mountain,

Like the foam on the river,
Like the bubble on the fountain,
Thou art gone, and for ever!

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. Modernised from the ancient ballad of "Jock o' Hazelgreen."

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair,
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen :"

But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight were there:

They sought her baith by bower and ha';
The ladye was not seen!

She's o'er the Border and awa'

Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.