Come tell it me speedilye:

For I lang to drynk of the guid reide wyne, And to wyng the ayr with thee.

Yer hellish horse I wilna ryde,
Nor sail the seas in the wynde;
But I can flee as weil as thee,

And I'll drynk quhill ye be blynd.—

O fy! oh fy! my leil auld man,
That word I darena tell;

It wald turn this warld all upside down,
And make it warse than hell.

For all the lasses in the land Wald munt the wynde and fly;

And he suckit, and he suckit se lang. Quhill his een they closit, and his voice gua low,

And his tongue wald hardly gang. The kerlyngs drank of the bishopis wyw Quhill they scentit the morning-wyade. Then clove again the yielding ayr,

And left the auld man behynde.

And aye he sleipit on the damp damp fo
He sleipit and he snorit amain;
He never dreamit he was far fra hame.
Or that the auld wyvis war gane.

And aye he sleipit on the damp damp fe
Quhill past the mid-day highte,

But the auld guidman was ane cunnyng auld

man,

And ane cunnying auld man was he; And he watchit, and he watchit for mony a nychte,

The witches' flychte to see.

Ane nychte he darnit in Maisry's cot;
The fearless haggs cam in;
And he heard the word of awsome weird,
And he saw their deidis of synn.

Then ane by ane they said that word,
As fast to the fire they drew ;-
Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell,
And out at the lum they flew.

The auld guidman cam fra his hole With feire and muckil dreide, But yet he culdna think to rue, For the wyne cam in his head.

He set his foot in the black cruik-shell, With ane fixit and ane wawlyng ee; And he said the word that I darena say, And out at the lum flew he.

The witches skalit the moonbeam pale;
Deep groanit the trembling wynde;
But they never wist till our auld guidman
Was hoveryng them behynde.

They flew to the vaultis of merry Carlisle,
Quhare they enterit free as ayr;
And they drank and they drank of the
bishopis wyne

Quhill they culde drynk ne mair.

The auld guidman he grew se crouse,
He dancit on the mouldy ground,
And he sang the bonniest sangs of Fyfe,
And he tuzzlit the kerlyngs round.

That trailit him to the lychte.

Now quha are yc, ye silly auld man, That sleipis se sound and se weil? Or how gat ye into the bishopis vault Throu lokkis and barris of steel?—

The auld gudeman he tryit to speak,
But ane word he culdna fynde;
He tryit to think, but his head whirlit rou
And ane thing he culdna mynde;-
I cam fra Fyfe, the auld man cryit.
And I cam on the mydnycht-wynde.

They nickit the auld man, and they prick the auld man.

And they yerkit his limbis with twice. Quhill the reide blude ran in his hose a shoon,

But some cryit it was wyne.

They lickit the auld man, and they pr the anld man, And they tyit him till ane stone; And they set ane bele-fire him about, To burn him skin and bone.

O wae to me! said the puir auld man.
That ever I saw the day!
And wae be to all the ill wemyng
That lead puir men astray!

Let nevir ane auld man after this
To lawless greide inclyne;
Let nevir ane auld man after this
Rin post to the deil for wyne.
The reike flew up in the auld manis face
And choukit him bitterlye;
And the lowe cam up with ane angry

And it syngit his auld breek-knce.

He lukit to the land fra whence he cam
For lukis he culde get ne mae ;
And he thochte of his deire littil bairn'-
hame,

And oh the auld man was wac!

་

But they turnit their facis to the sun,
With gloffe and wonderous glair,
For they saw ane thing beth lairge and dun;
Comin swaipin down the ayr.

That burd it cam fra the landis o' Fyfe,
And it cam rycht tymeouslye,
For quha was it but the auld manis wife,
Just comit his dethe to see.

Scho put ane reide cap on his heide,

And the auld guidman lookit fain," Then whisperit ane word intil his lug, And tovit to the ayr again.

The auld guidman he gae ane bob

I' the mids o' the burnyng lowe;
And the sheklis that band him to the ring,
They fell fra his armis like towe.

He drew his breath, and he said the word,
And he said it with muckil glee,
Then set his fit on the burnyng pile,
And away to the ayr flew he.

Till aince he cleirit the swirlyng reike,
He lukit beth ferit and sad;

But whan he wan to the lycht blue ayr,
He lauchit as he'd been mad.

His armis war spred, and his heid was hiche,
And his feite stack out behynde;
And the laibies of the auld manis cote,
War wauffing in the wynde.

And aye he neicherit, and aye he flew,
For he thochte the ploy se raire ;
It was like the voice of the gainder blue,
Quhan he flees throu the ayr.

He luckit back to the Carlisle men
As he borit the norlan sky;

. He noddit his heide, and gae ane girn,
But he nevir said guid-bye.

They vanisht far i' the liftis blue wale,
Ne mair the English saw,

But the auld manis lauche cam on the gale,
With a lang and a loud gaffa.

May everilke man in the land of Fyfe
Read what the drinkeris dree;
And nevir curse his puir auld wife,
Rychte wicked altho scho be.

When ceased the minstrel's crazy song,
His heedful glance embraced the throng,
And found the smile of free delight
Dimpling the cheeks of ladies bright.
Ah! never yet was bard unmoved,
When beauty smiled or birth approved!
For though his song he holds at nought-
An idle strain! a passing thought!
Child of the soul! 'tis held more dear
Than aught by mortals valued here.

When Leven's bard the Court had viewed,
His eye, his vigour, was renewed.
No, not the evening's closing eye,
Veiled in the rainbow's deepest dye,
By summer-breezes lulled to rest,
Cradled on Leven's silver breast,
Or slumbering on the distant sea,
Imparted sweeter ecstasy.
Nor even the angel of the night,
Kindling his holy sphere of light,
Afar upon the heaving deep,

To light a world of peaceful sleep,
Though in her beam night-spirits glanced,
And lovely fays in circles danced,
Or rank by rank rode lightly bye,-
Was sweeter to our minstrel's eye.

Unheard the bird of morning crew;
Unheard the breeze of Ocean blew;
And dawning ushered in the day.
The night unweened had passed away,

The Queen's young maids, of cherub hue,
Aside the silken curtains drew,
And lo the Night, in still profound,
In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground;
And still her furs, so light and fair,
Floated along the morning-air.
Low stooped the pine amid the wood,
And the tall cliffs of Salisbury stood
Like marble columns bent and riven,
Propping a pale and frowning heaven.

The Queen bent from her gilded chair, And waved her hand with graceful air:— "Break up the Court, my lords; away, And use the day as best you may, In sleep, in love, or wassail cheer; The day is dark, the evening nearSay, will you grace my halls the while, And in the dance the day beguile? Break up the Court, my lords; away, And use the day as best you may. Give order that my minstrels true Have royal fare and honours due; And warned by evening's bugle shrill, We meet to judge their minstrel-skill."

Whether that Royal Wake gave birth To days of sleep and nights of mirth, Which kings and courtiers still approve, Which sages blame, and ladies love, Imports not; but our courtly throng (That chapel-wake being kept so long) Slept out the lowering short-lived days, And heard by night their native lays, Till fell the eve of Christmas good, The dedication of the rood.

Ah me! at routs and revels gay,
Reproach of this unthrifty day,
Though none amongst the dames or men
Rank higher than a citizen,

In chair or chariot all are borne,
Closed from the piercing eye of morn;

But then, though dawning blasts were keen,
Scotland's high dames you might have seen,
Ere from the banquet-hall they rose,
Shift their laced shoes and silken hose;
Their broidered kirtles round them throw,
And wade their way through wreaths of snow,
Leaning on Lord or lover's arm,
Cheerful and reckless of all harm.
Vanished those hardy times outright;
So is our ancient Scottish might.

Sweet be her home, admired her charms, Bliss to her couch in lover's arms, I bid in every minstrel's name, I bid to every lovely dame, That ever gave one hour away To cheer the bard or list his lay! To all who love the raptures high Of Scottish song and minstrelsy, Till next the night, in sable shroud, Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood, That rival minstrels' songs I borrowI bid a hearty kind good-morrow.

NIGHT THE SECOND.

SCARCE fled the dawning's dubious gray,
So transient was that dismal day:
The lurid vapours, dense and stern,
Unpierced save by the crusted cairn,
In tenfold shroud the heavens deformi ;
While far within the brooding storm
Travelled the sun in lonely blue,
And noontide wore a twilight-huc.

The sprites that through the welkin wing, That light and shade alternate bring, That wrap the eve in dusky veil, And weave the morning's purple rail; From pendent clouds of deepest grain, Shed that dull twilight o'er the main. Each spire, each tower, and cliff sublime, Were hooded in the wreathy rime; And all, ere fell the murk of even, Were lost within the folds of heaven. It seemed as if the welkin's breast Had bowed upon the world to rest; As heaven and earth to close began, And seal the destiny of man.

The supper-bell at Court had rung; The mass was said, the vesper sung; In true devotion's sweetest mood, Beauty had kneeled before the rood; But all was done in secret guise, Close from the zealot's searching eyes.

Then burst the bugle's lordly peal Along the earth's incumbent veil; Swam on the cloud and lingering shower; To festive hall and lady's bower;

And found its way, with rapid boom, To rocks far curtained in the gloom, And waked their viewless bugle's strain, That sung the softened notes again.

Upsprung the maid from her love-dream. The matron from her silken seam; The abbot from his holy shrine: The chiefs and warriors from their wing For aye the bugle seemed to say, The Wake's begun! away, away!

Fast poured they in, all fair and boon, Till crowded was the grand saloon; And scarce was left a little ring, In which the rival bards might sing. First in the list that night to play, Was Farquhar, from the hills of Spey: A gay and comely youth was he, And seemed of noble pedigree. Well known to him Loch-Avin's shore, And all the dens of dark Glen-More; Where oft, amid his roving clan, His shaft had pierced the ptarmigan; And oft the dun deer's velvet side That winged shaft had ruthless dyed, Had struck the heath-cock whirring high And brought the eagle from the sky; And he had dragged the scaly brood From every Highland lake and flood.

Amid those scenes the youth was bred Where nature's eye is stern and dread; 'Mid forests dark, and caverns wild, And mountains above mountains piled, Whose hoary summits, tempest-riven, Uprear eternal snows to heaven. In Cumbria's dells he too had staid, Raving like one in trance that's laid, Of things which Nature gave not birth; Of heavenly damsels born of earth; Of pestilence and charnel den; Of ships, and seas, and souls of men: A moon-struck youth, by all confest, The dreamer of the watery West. His locks were fair as sunny sky; His cheek was ruddy, bright his eye; His speech was like the music's voice Mixed with the cataract's swaying nois His harpstrings sounded wild and deep. With fulling swell and lordly sweep.

Aloof from battle's fierce alarms, Prone his young mind to music's charm The cliffs and woods of dark Glen-Mor He taught to chant in mystic lore; For well he weened, by tarn and hill, Kind viewless spirits wandered still; And fondly trowed the groups so spy, Listening his cliff-born melody.

On Leven's bard with scorn he looked. His homely song he scarcely brooked. But proudly mounting on the form, Thus sung The Spirit of the Storm.

The Lowthers felt the tyrant's wrath; Proud Hartfell quaked beneath his brand; And Cheviot heard the cries of death,

Guarding his loved Northumberland.

But, O! as fell that fateful night,
What horrors Avin-wilds deform,
And choke the ghastly lingering light!
There whirled the vortex of the storm.

Ere morn the wind grew deadly still, And dawning in the air updrew From many a shelve and shining hill, Her folding robe of fairy blue.

Then, what a smooth and wondrous scene
Hung o'er Loch-Avin's lonely breast!
Not top of tallest pine was seen,
On which the dazzled eye could rest.

But mitred cliff. and crested fell,

In lucid curls her brows adorn, Aloft the radiant crescents swell,

All pure as robes by angels worn.

Sound sleeps our seer, far from the day, Beneath yon sleek and wreathed cone! His spirit steals, unmissed, away,

And dreams across the desert lone.

Sound sleeps our seer! the tempests rave,
And cold sheets o'er his bosom fling;
The moldwarp digs his mossy grave;
His requiem Avin eagles sing.

Why howls the fox above yon wreath
That mocks the blazing summer-sun?
Why croaks the sable bird of death,
As hovering o'er yon desert dun?

When circling years have past away,
And Summer blooms in Avin-Glen,
Why stands yon peasant in dismay,

Still gazing o'er the bloated den?

Green grows the grass! the bohes are white! Not bones of mountain-stag they seem! There hooted once the owl by night, Above the dead-light's lambent beam!

See yon lone cairn, so gray with age, Above the base of proud Cairn-Gorm: There lies the dust of Avin's sage, Who raised the Spirit of the Storm.

Yet still at eve, or midnight drear,

When wintry winds begin to sweep, When passing shrieks assail thine ear, Or murmurs by the mountain steep;

When from the dark and sedgy dells Come eldritch cries of wildered men, Or wind-harp at thy window swells,Beware the sprite of Avin-Glen!

Young Farquhar ceased, and rising slow
Doffed his plumed bonnet, wiped his brat
And, flushed with conscious dignity,
Cast o'er the crowd his falcon-eye,
And found them all in silence deep,
As listening for the tempest's sweep.
So well his tale of Avin's seer
Suited the rigour of the year;
So high his strain, so bold his lyre,
So fraught with rays of Celtic fire.
They almost weened each hum that past
The Spirit of the northern blast.

The next was named,—the very sound Excited merriment around; But when the bard himself appeared. The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneered For such a simple air and mien Before a court had never been. A clown he was, bred in the wild. And late from native moors exiled, In hopes his mellow mountain-strain High favour from the great would ga Poor wight! he never weened how hard For poverty to earn regard! Dejection o'er his visage ran, His coat was bare, his colour wan, His forest-doublet darned and torn, His shepherd-plaid all rent and worn: Yet dear the symbols to his eye, Memorials of a time gone bye.

The bard on Ettrick's mountain gre In Nature's bosom nursed had been. And oft had marked in forest lone Her beauties on her mountain-throne: Had seen her deck the wild-wood tree And star with snowy gems the lea; In loveliest colours paint the plain, And sow the moor with purple grain: By golden mead and mountain sheer, Had viewed the Ettrick waving clear. Where shadowy flocks of purest snow Seemed grazing in a world below.

Instead of Ocean's billowy pride, Where monsters play and navies ride Oft had he viewed, as morning rose, The bosom of the lonely Lowes, Plowed far by many a downy keel Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal. Oft thrilled his heart at close of eve To see the dappled vales of heaven, With many a mountain, moor, and Asleep upon the Saint Mary; The pilot swan majestic wind. With all his cygnet-fleet behind, So softly sail, and swiftly row, With sable oar and silken prow. Instead of war's unhallowed form, His eye had seen the thunder-storm Descend within the mountain's brim And shroud him in its chambers gra Then from its bowels burst amain The sheeted flame and sounding rain