The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,

He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the

cup.

She looked down to blush, and she looked up to

sigh,

With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.

He took her soft hand ere her mother could

bar,

'Now tread we a measure!" said young Loch

invar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace; While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,

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And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;

And the bride-maidens whispered, ""T were

better by far

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

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One touch to her hand and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the

charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! "She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and

scaur;

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth

young Lochinvar.

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There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the
Netherby clan;

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they

see.

So daring in love and so dauntless in war, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?

1808.

Sir Walter Scott.

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THE MAID OF NEIDPATH

O, LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;

And love in life's extremity

Can lend an hour of cheering.

Disease had been in Mary's bower,

And slow decay from mourning,

Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower
To watch her love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,

Till through her wasted hand at night
You saw the taper shining;

8

By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew,
Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,
She heard her lover's riding;

Ere scarce a distant form was kenned,
She knew, and waved to greet him;
And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.

He came he passed-an heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.
Sir Walter Scott.

1806.

16

24

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A WEARY LOT IS THINE

From Rokeby

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!

1813.

A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,—
No more of me you knew,
My love!

No more of me you knew.

"This morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain;

But she shall bloom in winter snow
Ere we two meet again."

He turn'd his charger as he spake
Upon the river shore,

He gave the bridle-reins a shake,
Said "Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore."

10

20

Sir Walter Scott.

BRIGNALL BANKS

From Rokeby

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,

A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,-

"O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there
Than reign our English queen."

“If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me,
To leave both tower and town,

Thou first must guess what life lead we
That dwell by dale and down.

And if thou canst that riddle read,
As read full well you may,

Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed,
As blithe as Queen of May."

Yet sung she, “Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;

I'd rather rove with Edmund there

Than reign our English queen.

12

24

"I read you, by your bugle horn, And by your palfry good,

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I read you for a ranger sworn
To keep the king's greenwood."
A ranger, lady, winds his horn,
And 't is at peep of light;

His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

Yet sung she, “Brignall banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay;

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his Queen of May!

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