O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!

And closed for ay, the sparkling glance
That dwelt on me sae kindly!
And mouldering now in silent dust
That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
But still within my bosom's core
Shall live my Highland Mary.

Robert Burns.

CCCXVII.

GATHERING SONG OF DONALD

THE BLACK.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons !

Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,
The bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges :
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended,

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come ;

See how they gather !
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward, each man, set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!

Sir Walter Scott.

ICCCXVIII.

AULD LANG SYNE.

SHOULD auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

Chorus.

For auld lang syne, my dear,

For auld lang syne,
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet,

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak' a cup of kindness yet
For auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

From morning sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin' auld lang syne.
For auld, etc.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught,

For auld lang syne.

For auld, etc.-Robert Burns.

CCCXIX.

MARY MORISON.

O MARY, at thy window be,
It is the wish'd, the trysted hour!
Those smiles and glances let me see,
That make the miser's treasure poor :
How blythely wad I bide the stoure,
A weary slave frae sun to sun,
Could I the rich reward secure,
The lovely Mary Morison.

Yestreen, when to the trembling string
The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha',

To thee my fancy took its wing,—
I sat, but neither heard nor saw :
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw,
And yon the toast of a' the town,
I sigh'd, and said amang them a’,
"Ye are na Mary Morison.”

O Mary, canst thou wreck his peace,
Wha for thy sake wad gladly dee?
Or canst thou break that heart of his,
Whase only faut is loving thee?
If love for love thou wilt na gie,
At least be pity to me shown;
A thought ungentle canna be
The thought o' Mary Morison.

Robert Burns.

CCCXX.

ENGLAND AND SWITZERLAND.

1802.

Two Voices are there; one is of the sea,
One of the mountains; each a mighty voice:
In both from age to age thou didst rejoice,
They were thy chosen music, Liberty!

There came a Tyrant, and with holy glee

Thou fought'st against him,-but hast vainly

striven:

Thou from thy Alpine holds at length art driven Where not a torrent murmurs heard by thee.

-Of one deep bliss thine ear hath been bereft ; Then cleave, O cleave to that which still is leftFor, high-soul'd Maid, what sorrow would it be 'That Mountain floods should thunder as before,

And Ocean bellow from his rocky shore,
And neither awful Voice be heard by thee!

W. Wordsworth.

CCCXXI.

A SERENADE.

AH! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,

The orange-flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.

The lark, his lay who trill'd all day,
Sits hush'd his partner nigh;

Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?

The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd's suit to hear;

To Beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.

The star of Love, all stars above,
Now reigns o'er earth and sky,

And high and low the influence know—
But where is County Guy?

Sir Walter Scott.

CCCXXII.

ENGLAND.

I TRAVELLED among unknown men,
In lands beyond the sea;

Nor, England! did I know till then
What love I bore to thee.