THE DOWNFALL OF DALZELL. The wind is cold, the snow falls fast, The night is dark and late, As I lift aloud my voice and cry By the oppressor's gate. There is a voice in every hill, A tongue in every stone; The green wood sings a song of joy, Since thou art dead and gone: A poet's voice is in each mouth, And songs of triumph swell, Glad songs that tell the gladsome earth The downfall of Dalzell.

As I raised up my voice to sing, I heard the green earth say, Sweet am I now to beast and bird, Since thou art past away; I hear no more the battle shout, The martyr's dying moans; My cottages and cities sing From their foundation stones; The carbine and the culverin's muteThe death-shot and the yell Are twin'd into a hymn of joy, For thy downfall, Dalzell. I've trod thy banner in the dust, And caused the raven call From thy bride-chamber, to the owl

Hatch'd on

thy castle wall;

I've made thy minstrel's music dumb,
And silent now to fame

Art thou, save when the orphan casts
His curses on thy name.

Now thou may'st say to good men's prayers
A long and last farewell:
There's hope for every sin save thine-
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

The grim pit opes for thee her gates,
Where punish'd spirits wail,
And ghastly death throws wide her door,
And hails thee with, All hail!
Deep from the grave there comes a voice,
A voice with hollow tones,

Such as

a

That spoke through hollow bones:Arise, ye martyr'd men, and shout From earth to howling hell; He comes, the persecutor comes! All hail to thee, Dalzell! O'er an old battle-field there rushed A wind, and with a moan The sever'd limbs all rustling rose, Even fellow bone to bone.

spirit's tongue would have

Lo! there he goes, I heard them cry,
Like babe in swathing band,
Who shook the temples of the Lord,

And pass'd them 'neath his brand!
Curs'd be the spot where he was born,
There let the adders dwell;
And from his father's hearth-stone hiss:
All hail to thee, Dalzell!

I saw thee growing like a tree-
Thy green head touched the sky-
But birds far from thy branches built,
The wild deer pass'd thee by:

No golden dew dropt on thy bough,
Glad summer scorned to grace
Thee with her flowers, nor shepherds wooed
Beside thy dwelling place:

The axe has come and hewed thee down,
Nor left one shoot to tell
Where all thy stately glory grew;

Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

An ancient man stands by thy gate,
His head like thine is gray-
Gray with the woes of many years--

Years fourscore and a day.
Five brave and stately sons were his;

Two daughters, sweet and rare;
An old dame dearer than them all,

And lands both broad and fair:

Two broke their hearts when two were slain,
And three in battle fell-

An old man's curse shall cling to thee:
Adieu, adieu, Dalzell!

And yet I sigh to think of thee,

A warrior tried and true,

As ever spurred a steed, when thick
The splintering lances flew.

I saw thee in thy stirrups stand,

And hew thy foes down fast,

When Grierson fled, and Maxwell fail'd,

And Gordon stood aghast;

And Graeme, saved by thy sword, raged fierce
As one redeem'd from hell.

I came to curse thee-and I weep:
So go in peace, Dalzell.

SHE'S GANE TO DWALL IN HEAVEN.

She's gane to dwall in heaven, my lassie, She's 's gane to dwall in heaven; "Ye're owre pure," quo' the voice of God, "For dwalling out o' heaven!"

Oh, what'll she do in heaven, my lassie? Oh, what'll she do in heaven?

She'll mix her ain thought swi' angels' sangs, And make them mair meet for heaven.

She was beloved by a', my lassie,

She was beloved by a';

But an angel fell in love wi' her, An' took her frae us a'.

Lowly there thou lies, my lassie,
Lowly there thou lies;

A bonnier form ne'er went to the yird,
Nor frae it will arise!

Fu' soon I'll follow thee, my lassie,
Fu' soon I'll follow thee;

Thou left me nought to covet ahin',
But took gudeness' sell wi' thee.

I look'd on thy death-cold face, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-cold face;
Thou seem'd a lily new cut i' the bud,
An' fading in its place.

I look'd on thy death-shut eye, my lassie,
I look'd on thy death-shut eye,
An' a lovelier light in the brow of Heaven
Fell Time shall ne'er destroy.

Thy lips were ruddy and calm, my lassie,
Thy lips were ruddy and calm;
But gane was the holy breath o' Heaven,
That sang the evening psalm.

There's nought but dust now mine, lassie,
There's nought but dust now mine;
My soul's wi' thee i' the cauld grave,
An' why should I stay behin'?

DE BRUCE! DE BRUCE!

De Bruce! De Bruce!-with that proud call Thy glens, green Galloway,

Grow bright with helm, and axe, and glaive, And plumes in close array:

The English shafts are loosed, and see,

They fall like winter sleet;

The southern nobles urge their steeds,

Earth shudders 'neath their feet.

Flow gently on, thou gentle Orr,
Down to old Solway's flood;

The ruddy tide that stains thy streams

Is England's richest blood.

Flow gently onwards, gentle Orr,
Along thy greenwood banks;

King Robert raised his martial cry,
And broke the English ranks.

Black Douglas smiled and wiped his blade,
He and the gallant Græme;

And, as the lightning from the cloud,
Here fiery Randolph came;
And stubborn Maxwell too was here,

Who spared nor strength nor steel;
With him who won the winged spur
Which gleams on Johnstone's heel.

De Bruce! De Bruce!-yon silver star,
Fair Alice, it shines sweet-
The lonely Orr, the good greenwood,
The sod aneath our feet,

Yon pasture mountain green and large,
The sea that sweeps its foot-
Shall die-shall dry-shall cease to be,
And earth and air be mute;

The sage's word, the poet's song,

And woman's love, shall be

Things charming none, when Scotland's heart Warms not with naming thee.

De Bruce! De Bruce!-on Dee's wild banks, And on Orr's silver side,

Far other sounds are echoing now

Than war-shouts answering wide:
The reaper's horn rings merrily now;
Beneath the golden grain

The sickle shines, and maidens' songs
Glad all the glens again.

But minstrel-mirth, and homely joy,
And heavenly libertie-

De Bruce! De Bruce!-we owe them all
To thy good sword and thee.

Lord of the mighty heart and mind,
And theme of many a song!
Brave, mild, and meek, and merciful,
I see thee bound along,—

Thy helmet plume is seen afar,

That never bore a stain;

Thy mighty sword is flashing high,
Which never fell in vain.

Shout, Scotland, shout-till Carlisle wall
Gives back the sound agen,—

De Bruce! De Bruce-less than a god,
But noblest of all men!

A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves

Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!

I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,
And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free-
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

THE LOVELY LASS OF PRESTON-MILL.

The lark had left the evening cloud,

The dew fell saft, the wind was lowne,
Its gentle breath amang the flowers
Scarce stirr'd the thistle's tap of down;
The dappled swallow left the pool,
The stars were blinking o'er the hill,
When I met, among the hawthorns green,
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Her naked feet amang the grass
Shone like two dewy lilies fair;
Her brow beam'd white aneath her locks,
Black curling o'er her shoulders bare;
Her cheeks were rich wi' bloomy youth,
Her lips had words and wit at will,
And heaven seem'd looking through her een,
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

Quoth I, Fair lass, wilt thou gang wi' me,
Where black-cocks crow, and plovers cry?

Six hills

are

woolly wi' my sheep,

Six vales are lowing wi' my kye. I have look'd lang for a weel-faur'd lass, By Nithsdale's holms, and many a hillShe hung her head like a dew-bent rose, The lovely lass of Preston-mill. Isaid, Sweet maiden, look nae down, But gie's a kiss, and come with me; A lovelier face O ne'er look'd up,The tears were dropping frae her e'e. Ihae a lad who's far awa', That weel could win a woman's will; My heart's already full of love,Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill. Now who is he could leave sic a lass, And seek for love in a far countrie?

Her tears dropp'd down like simmer dew;
I fain wad kiss'd them frae her e'e.

I took ae kiss o' her comely cheek-
For pity's sake, kind sir, be still;
My heart is full of other love,

Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

She streek'd to heaven her twa white hands, And lifted up her watery e'e—

Sae lang's my heart kens aught o' God,

Or light is gladsome to my e'e;

While woods grow green, and burns run clear,
Till my last drop of blood be still,

My heart shall haud nae other love,
Quoth the lovely lass of Preston-mill.

There's comely maids on Dee's wild banks,
And Nith's romantic vale is fu';
By Ae and Clouden's hermit streams
Dwells many a gentle dame, I trow.
O! they are lights of a bonnie kind,
As ever shone on vale and hill,
But there's ae light puts them all out,-
The lovely lass of Preston-mill.

IT'S HAME, AND IT'S HAME.

It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' its hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
When the flower is i' the bud, and the leaf is on

the tree,

The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie;
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyalty's beginning for to fa',
The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a';
But I'll water't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie,
An' green it will grow in my ain countrie
It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be,
An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

There's naught now frac ruin my country can

save,

But the keys o' kind Heaven to open the grave, That a' the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie, May rise again and fight for their ain countrie. It's hame, and it's hame, hame fain wad I be, And it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave;

But the sun through the mirk blinks blithe in

my e'e:

"I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countrie." It's hame, an' its hame, hame fain wad I be, An' it's hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

MY NANIE, O.

Red rows the Nith 'tween bank and brae,
Mirk is the night, and rainie, 0,
Though heaven and earth should mix in
storm,

I'll gang and see my Nanie, O;

My Nanie, O, my Nanie, O;

My kind and winsome Nanie, O,
She holds my heart in love's dear bands,
And nane can do't but Nanie, O.

In preaching time sae meek she stands,
Sae saintly and sae bonnie, O,
I cannot get ae glimpse of grace,

For thieving looks at Nanie, 0;
My Nanie, O, my Nanie, 0;

The world's in love with Nanie, O;
That heart is hardly worth the wear
That wadna love my Nanie, O.

My breast can scarce contain my heart,
When dancing she moves finely, O;
I guess what heaven is by her eyes,
They sparkle sae divinely, O;

My Nanie, O, my Nanie, 0;

The flower o' Nithsdale's Nanie, O; Love looks frae 'neath her lang brown hair, And says, I dwell with Nanie, O.

Tell not, thou star at gray daylight,
O'er Tinwald-top so bonnie, O,
My footsteps 'mang the morning dew,
When coming frae my Nanie, 0;
My Nanie, O, my Nanie, 0;

Nane ken o' me and Nanie, 0;
The stars and moon may tell't aboon,
They winna wrang my Nanie, O!

SATURDAY'S SUN.

O Saturday's sun sinks down with a smile
On one who is weary and worn with his toil!—
Warmer is the kiss which his kind wife receives,
Fonder the look to his bonnie bairns he gives;
His gude mother is glad, though her race is nigh

run,

To smile wi' the weans at the setting of the sun: The voice of prayer is heard, and the holy psalm tune,

Wha wadna be glad when the sun gangs down?

Thy cheeks, my leal wife, may not keep the ripe glow

Of sweet seventeen, when thy locks are like snow.

Though the sweet blinks of love are most flown

frae thy e'e,

Thou art fairer and dearer than ever to me.

I mind when I thought that the sun didna shine
On a form half so fair or a face so divine;
Thou wert woo'd in the parlour, and sought in
the ha';

I came and I won thee frae the wit o' them a'.

My hame is my mailen, weel stocket and fu',
My bairns are the flocks and the herds which I
lo'e;

My wife is the gold and delight of my e'e,
And worth a whole lordship of mailens to me.
O, who would fade away like a flower in the dew,
And no leave a sprout for kind Heaven to pu'?
Who would rot 'mang the mools like the stump
of a tree,

Wi' nae shoots the pride of the forest to be?

AWAKE, MY LOVE.

Awake, my love! ere morning's ray
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew;
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs;
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake!

She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes and clasp'd her shoon,
And from her home by Preston burn
Came forth, the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropt, now lowne, now hush-
The gold-spink answered from the bush--
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.

"Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.

Yes, lonely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon caroling lark?
Tak'st thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love-
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE THISTLE'S GROWN ABOON THE

ROSE.

Full white the Bourbon lily blows,
And fairer haughty England's rose;
Nor shall unsung the symbol smile,
Green Ireland, of thy lovely isle.
In Scotland grows a warlike flower,
Too rough to bloom in lady's bower;
His crest, when high the soldier bears,
And spurs his courser on the spears,
0! there it blossoms-there it blows,-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

Bright like a steadfast star it smiles
Aboon the battle's burning files;
The mirkest cloud, the darkest night,
Shall ne'er make dim that beauteous light;
And the best blood that warms my vein
Shall flow ere it shall catch a stain.
Far has it shone on fields of fame,
From matchless Bruce till dauntless Græme,
From swarthy Spain to Siber's snows;—
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

What conquer'd ay, what nobly spared,
What firm endured, and greatly dared?
What redden'd Egypt's burning sand?
What vanquish'd on Corunna's strand?

What pipe

What dyed in blood Barossa hill?
Bade France's dearest life-blood rue
Dark Soignies and dread Waterloo?
That spirit which no terror knows;-
The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

on green Maida blew shrill?

I vow-and let men mete the grass For his red grave who dares say lessMen kinder at the festive board, Men braver with the spear and sword, Men higher famed for truth-more strong In virtue, sovereign sense, and song, Or maids more fair, or wives more true, Than Scotland's, ne'er trode down the dew. Round flies the song-the flagon flows,— The thistle's grown aboon the rose.

O! gladness comes to many,

But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countrie.

O! it's nae my ain ruin

That saddens aye my e'e, But the love I left in Galloway, Wi' bonnie bairnies three. My hamely hearth burnt bonnie, An' smiled my fair Marie; I've left my heart behind me In my ain countrie.

The bud comes back to summer, And the blossom to the bee; But I'll win back-O never,

To my ain countrie.

I'm leal to the high Heaven,
Which will be leal to me,
An' there I'll meet ye a' sune
Frae my ain countrie.

BONNIE LADY ANN.

There's kames o' hinnie 'tween my luve's lips, And gowd amang her hair;

Her breists are lapt in a holy vail;

Nae mortal een keek there.

What lips daur kiss, or what hand daur touch, Or what arm o' luve daur span,

The hinnie lips, the creamy lufe,

Or the waist o' Lady Ann?

She kisses the lips o' her bonnie red rose,
Wat wi' the blobs o' dew;

But nae gentle lip, nor semple lip,

Maun touch her ladie mou'.

But a broider'd belt, wi' a buckle o' gowd,
Her jimpy waist maun span;

Oh! she's an armfu' fit for heeven

My bonnie Lady Ann.

Her bower casement is latticed wi' flowers,
Tied up wi' siller thread;

And comely sits she in the midst,

Men's langing een to feed:

She waves the ringlets frae her cheek,

Wi' her milky, milky hand;

An' her cheeks seem touch'd wi' the finger of God,

My bonnie Lady Ann.

The mornin' clud is tasselt wi' gowd,

Like my luve's broidered cap; And on the mantle that my luve wears Is mony a gowden drap.