448 When hymns of other worlds she sung O, then the glen was all in motion! Broke from their bughts" and faulds the tame, 52 And the tod, and the lamb, and the leveret ran; The hawk and the hern attour" them hung, And the merle and the mavis forhooy'd" their young; It was like an Eve in a sinless world! When a month and a day had come and gane, There laid her down on the leaves sae green, For they kendna whether she was living or dead. WHEN THE KYE COMES HAME COME all ye jolly shepherds, I'll tell ye of a secret That courtiers dinna ken: Where, on thy dewy wing, Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth. O'er fell and fountain sheen, O'er moor and mountain green, O'er the red steamer that heralds the day, Over the rainbow's rim, Musical cherub, soar, singing, away! Then, when the gloaming comes, Low in the heather blooms, Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Blest is thy dwelling-place O to abide in the desert with thee! 450 LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale, The widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone! Lock the door, Lariston,-high on the weather-gleam, Yeoman and carbinier, Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry. Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar; Hidley and Howard there, 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 grasped 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! 'Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might Lindhope and Sorbie true, Gentle in manner, but lions in fight! 'I've Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn, and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray.' Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold; 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 warriors' shout! Lances and halberds in splinters were borne; Helmet and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane-the proud files of the Winder mere! Howard-ah! woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, 451 ROBERT SURTEES [1779-1834] BARTHRAM'S DIRGE THEY shot him dead on the Nine-Stone rig, And they left him lying in his blood, They made a bier of the broken bough, And they bore him to the Lady Chapel, A lady came to that lonely bower She bath'd him in the Lady-Well And she plaited a garland for his breast, They rowed him in a lily sheet, And bare him to his earth, (And the Grey Friars sung the dead man's mass, As they passed the Chapel Garth). They buried him at the midnight, They dug his grave but a bare foot deep, And they covered him o'er with the heather-flower, A Grey Friar staid upon the grave, And sang till the morning tide, And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul, 452 THOMAS CAMPBELL [1777-1844] THE SOLDIER'S DREAM OUR bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw By the wolf-scaring faggot that guarded the slain, Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. |