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The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet online

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A stripling's weak hand to our revel has
borne her,
No mail-glove has grasped her, no spear
men surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or
should scorn her
A thousand true hearts would be cold on
the ground.

We forget each contention of civil dissen-
sion,
And hail, like our brethren, Home,
Douglas, and Car ■

And El i IOT and Pringle in pastime shall
mingle,
•me in peace as their fathers in

W.ll

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be
the weather,
And ii by mischance you should happen
to' tall. M



There are worse things in life than a tum-
ble on heather,
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

And when it is over we'll drink a blithe
measure
To each laird and each lady that wit-
nessed our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in
our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost and the lads
that have won.

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough
and Landward,
From the hall of the peer to the herd's
ingle-nook ;
And huzza ! my brave hearts, for Buc-
cleuch and his standard,
For the King and the Country, the Clan
and the Duke !
Then up with the Banner, let forest
winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettrick eight
ages and more ;
In sport we '11 attend her, in battle de-
fend her,
With heart and with hand, like our
fathers before.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.



511



iLulIabg oi an Infant GTijief.
[1815.1

Air — " Cadul gn lo."

O, hush thee, my babie, thy sire was a

knight,
Thy mother a lady both lovely and bright ;
The woods and the glens, from the towers

which we see,
They all are belonging, dear babie, to thee.
O ho ro, i ri ri, cadul gu lo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

O, fear not the bugle, though loudly it

blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy

repose ;
Their bows would be bended, their blades

would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to

thy bed.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

O, hush thee, my babie, the time soon will

come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet

and drum ;
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while

you may,
For strife comes with manhood and waking

with day.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.



aHje Eeturn to mister.

[1816.]

Once again, — but how changed since my
wanderings began —

I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan
and Bann,

And the pines of Clanbrassil resound to
the roar

That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

Alas ! my poor bosom, and why shouldst
thou burn !

With the scenes of my youth can its rap-
tures return?

Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

That flowed when these echoes first mixed
with my strain ?

It was then that around me, though poor

and unknown,
High spells of mysterious enchantment

were thrown :



The streams were of silver, of diamond the

dew,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.
I had heard of our bards, and my soul was

on fire
At the rush of their verse and the sweep

of their lyre :
To me 't was not legend nor tale to the

ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguished and

clear.

Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,
And renewed the wild pomp of the chase

and the hall ;
And the standard of Fion flashed fierce

from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest

is nigh.
It seemed that the harp of green Erin once

more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of

yore. —
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart,

shouldst thou burn ?
They were days of delusion and cannot

return.

But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who

stood by,
And listed my lay while she turned from

mine eye ?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to

view,
Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted

to dew ?
O, would it had been so ! — O, would that

her eye
Had been but a star-glance that shot through

the sky,
And her voice that was moulded to melody's

thrill,
Had been but. a zephyr that sighed and was

still !

O, would it had been so! — not then this

poor heart
Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to

part ;
To bear unassisted its burden of care,
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one

to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer

was done
And the hours of her autumn were fast

speeding on,
'Take the fame and the' riches ye brought

in your train,
And restore me the dream of my spring-
tide asrain.'



512



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.



Sock of f^eloean.

[1816.]

Air — " A Border Melody."

1 Why weep ye by the tide, ladie ?

Why weep ye by the tide ?
I '11 wed ye to my youngest son,

And ye sail be his bride :
And ye sail be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen ' —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

1 Now let this wilfu' grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale ;
Young Frank is chief of Errington

And lord of Langley-dale ;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen' —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

* A chain of gold ye sail not lack,

Nor braid to bind your hair ;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen.' —
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was decked at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmered fair ;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

And dame and knight are there.
They sought her baith by bower and ha' ;

The ladie was not seen !
She 's o'er the Border and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.



$ibrocf) of ©onalo Biju.

[1816.]

Air — " Piobair 0/ Donuil Dkuidh."

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

I'ihroch of Donuil,
\V;ik( thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,

II. nk 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 Inverlochy.
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 uninterred,

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 !



iftora'g Uofo.

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY.

[1816.]
Air — " Cha teid mis a chaoidh. "

Hear what Highland Nora said,
' The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valor lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.'

'A maiden's vows,' old Callum spoke,
1 Are lightly made and lightly broke ;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light ;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae ;
Yet Nora ere its bloom be gone
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.'



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.



513



'The swan,' she said, 'the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest ;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans when blood is high
Before their foes may turn and fly ;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son/



Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made ;
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce

river ;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel
No Highland brogue has turned the heel ;
But Nora's heart is lost and won —
She 's wedded to the Earlie's son !



iliac Orepr's @atjjermtj.

WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY.

[l8l6.]

Air — " T/taz'n' a Grigalach.''''

The moon 's on the lake and the mist "s on

the brae,
And the Clan has a name that is nameless
by day ;
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach !
Gather, gather, gather, etc.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs

we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful
haloo ! •

Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo. Griga-
' lach !
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc.



Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchurn

and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours ;
We 're landless, landless, landless,

Grigalach !
Landless, landless, landless, etc.



But doomed and devoted by vassal and

lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and his
sword !
Then courage, courage, courage, Grig-
alach !
Courage, courage, courage, etc.



If they rob us of name and pursue us with

beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame and their flesh
to the eagles !
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance,

Grigalach !
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.

While there 's leaves in the forest and foam

on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish
forever !
Come then, Grigalach, come then,

Grigalach !
Come then, come then, come then, etc.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the

steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley

shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles

melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance

unfelt.
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach !
Gather, gather, gather, etc.



Uerses

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED TO HAYDN'S
AIR, " GOD SAVE THE EMPEROR FRANCIS," AND SUNG
BY A SELECT BAND AFTER THE DINNER GIVEN BY
THE LORD PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE GRAND-
DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA, AND HIS SUITE, 19TH
DECEMBER, 1816.

God protect brave Alexander,
Heaven defend the noble Czar,
Mighty Russia's high Commander,
First in Europe's banded war:
For the realms he did deliver
From the tyrant overthrown,
Thou, of every good the Giver,
Grant him long to bless his own !
Bless him, mid his land's disaster
For her rights who battled brave ;
Of the land of foemen master,
Bless him who their wrongs forgave.

O'er his just resentment victor,
Victor over Europe's foes,
Late and long supreme director,
Grant in peace his reign may close.
Hail ! then, hail ! illustrious stranger !
Welcome to our mountain strand;
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger,
Link us with thy native land.
Freemen's force or false beguiling
Shall that union ne'er divide,
Hand in hand while peace is smiling,
And in battle side by side.



33



5H



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.



Cfje Search; after happiness;

OR, THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.
[1817O

O, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye
That lightened on Bandello's laughing

tale,
And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and

sly
When Giam Battista bade her vision

hail! —
Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
Given by the natives of that land cano-
rous ;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,
We Britons have the fear of shame be-
fore us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be
decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while

since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they performed their

round,
Beheld all others fixed upon the ground ;
Whose ears received the same unvaried

phrase,
1 Sultaun ! thy vassal hears and he obeys ! '
All have their tastes — this may the fancy

strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur

like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney corner seek domestic joys —
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and

glass ;
In fitting time can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay —
Such monarchs best our free-born humors

suit,
But despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

This Solimaun Serendib had in sway —
And where's Serendib? may some critic

say. —
( -ood lack, mine honest friend, consult the

chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If RetmeU has it not, you'll find mayhap
The isle laid down in Captain Sindbad's

map —
Famed mariner, whose merciless narrations
y friend and kinsman out of

patience,



Till, fain to find a guest who thought them

shorter,
He deigned to tell them over to a porter —
The last edition see, by Long, and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the

Row.



Serendib found, deem not my tale a fic-
tion —
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradic-
tion —
A sort of stimulant which hath its uses
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
Sovereign specific for all sorts of cures
In my wife's practice and perhaps in yours —
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome

bitter,
Or cordial smooth for prince's palate fitter —
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild

themes
Belonging to the Mollah 's subtle craft,
I wot not — but the Sultaun never laughed,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorned all remedy profane or holy ;
In his long list of melancholies, mad
Or mazed or dumb, hath Burton none so
bad.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and

tried,
As e'er scrawled jargon in a darkened

room;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue

they eyed,
Peeped in his bath and God knows where

beside,
And then in solemn accent spoke their

doom,
• His majesty is very far from well.'
Then each to work with his specific

fell: y

The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily,
Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily.
More and yet more in deep array appear,
And some the front assail and some the

rear;
Their remedies to reinforce and vary
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary ;
Till the tired monarch, though of words

grown chary,
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless

labor,
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre.
There lacked, I promise you, no longer

speeches
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.



515



Then was the council called — by their

advice —
They deemed the matter ticklish all and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own

shoulders —
Tartars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call, a sort of Eastern Parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders —
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couronl-

tai; —
I 'm not prepared to show in this slight

song

That to Serendib the same forms belong —
E'en let the learned go search, and tell me

if I 'm wrong.



The Omrahs, each with hand on scimitar,

Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for
war —

' The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath

Too long has slept nor owned the work of
death ;

Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,

Bang the loud gong and raise the shout of
battle !

This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's
day

Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,

When the bold Lootie wheels his courser
round

And the armed elephant shall' shake the
ground.

Each noble pants to own the glorious sum-
mons —

And for the charges — Lo ! your faithful
Commons ! '

The Riots who attended in their places —
Serendib language calls a farmer Riot —

Looked ruefully in one another's faces,
From thisoratiori auguring much disquiet,

Double assessment, forage, and free quar-
ters ;

And fearing these as Chinamen the Tartars,

Or as the whiskered vermin fear the
mousers,

Each fumbled in the pocket of his trousers.

And next came forth the reverend Convo-
cation,
Bald heads, white beards, and many a
turban green,
Imaum and Mollah there of every station,
Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.
Their votes were various — some advised
a mosque
With fitting revenues should be erected,
With seemly gardens and with gay kiosque,
To recreate a band of priests selected ;



Others opined that through the realms a

dole
Be made to holy men, whose prayers

might profit
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul.
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik

Ul-Sofit,
More closely touched the point; — 'Thy

studious mood,'
Quoth he, ' O Prince ! hath thickened all

thy blood,
And dulled thy brain with labor beyond

measure ;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy

pleasure,
And toy with beauty or tell o'er thy

treasure ;
From all the cares of state, my liege, en-
large thee,
And leave the burden to thy faithful

clergy.'

These counsels sage availed not a whit,
And so the patient — as is not un-
common
Where grave physicians lose their time and
wit —
Resolved to take advice of an old
woman ;
His mother she, a dame who once was

beauteous,
And still was called so by each subject

duteous.
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,

Or only made believe, I cannot say —

But she professed to cure disease the

sternest,

By dint of magic amulet or lay ;

And, when all other skill in vain was shown,

She deemed it fitting time to use her own.

1 Sympathia magica hath wonders done ' —
Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son —
' It works upon the fibres and the pores,
And thus insensibly our health restores,
And it must help us here. — Thou must

endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure.
Search land and sea, and get where'er you

can
The inmost vesture of a happy man,
I mean his shirt, my son; which, taken

warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase

your harm,
Bid every current of your veins rejoice,
And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-
boy's.'
Such was the counsel from his mother
came ; —



5 i6



SCOTT'S POETICAL WORKS.



I know not if she had some under-game,

As doctors have, who bid their patients
roam

And live abroad when sure to die at home ;

Or if she thought that, somehow or another,

Queen-Regent sounded better than Queen-
Mother ;

But, says the Chronicle — who will go look
it —

That such was her advice — the Sultaun
took it.

All are on board ^he Sultaun and his
train,

In gilded galley prompt to plough the main.
The old Rais was the first who ques-
tioned, 'Whither?'

They paused — 'Arabia,' thought the pen-
sive prince,

' Was called The Happy many ages since —
For Mokha, Rais.' — And they came
safely thither.

But not in Araby with all her balm,

Not where Judea weeps beneath her palm,

Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,

Could there the step of happiness be traced.

One Copt alone professed to have seen her
smile,

When Bruce his goblet filled at infant
Nile:

She blessed the dauntless traveller as he
quaffed,

But vanished from him with the ended
draught.

' Enough of turbans,' said the weary King,

' These dolimans of ours are not the thing;

Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and
cap, I

Incline to think some of them must be
happy ;

At least, they have as fair a cause as any
can,

They drink good wine and keep no
Ramazan.

Then northward, ho!' — The vessel cuts
the sea,

And fair Italia lies upon her lee. —

But fair Italia, she who once unfurled

Ilrt i a -.de-banners o'er a conquered world,

Long from her throne of domination tum-
bled.

Lay by her quondam vassals sorely hum-
bled :

The Pope himself looked pensive, pale,
and l«.iii.

And was not half the man he once had

4 While these the priest and those the
noble fleeces,



Our poor old boot,' they said, ' is torn to

pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel.
And the Great Devil is rending toe and

heel.
If happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni

Bulli ;
A tramontane, a heretic — the buck,
Poffaredio ! still has all the luck ;
By land or ocean never strikes his flag —
And then — a perfect walking money-bag.'
Off set our prince to seek John Bull's

abode,
But first took France — it lay upon the

road.

Monsieur Baboon after much late commo-
tion
Was agitated like a settling ocean,
Quite out of sorts and could not tell what

ailed him.
Only the glory of his house had failed him ;
Besides, some tumors on his noddle biding
Gave indication of a recent hiding.
Our prince, though Sultauns of such things

are heedless,
Thought it a thing indelicate and needless
To ask if at that moment he was happy.
And Monsieur, seeing that he was co7nme

ilfaut, a
Loud voice mustered up, for ' Vive le

Roil'
Then whispered, ' Ave you any news of

Nappy ? '
The Sultaun answered him with a cross

question. —
' Pray, can you tell me aught of one John

Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond your

herring-pool ? '
The query seemed of difficult digestion,
The party shrugged and grinned and took

his snuff,
And found his whole good-breeding scarce

enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers
As damsels wont to put into their tuckers —
Ere liberal Fashion damned both lace and

lawn,
And bade the veil of modesty be drawn —
Replied the Frenchman after a brief pause,
' Jean Bool ! — I vas not know him — Yes,

I vas —
I vas remember dat, von year or two,
I saw him at von place called Vaterloo —
Ma foi ! il s'est tres joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman, — m'entendez-vous ?
But den he had wit him one damn son-gun,



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS.



517



Rogue I no like — dey call him Vellington.'
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his

fret,
So Solimaun took leave and crossed the

strait.



John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended and the victory

won,
But then 't was reckoning-day with honest

John;
And authors vouch, 't was still this worthy's

way,
' Never to grumble till he came to pay ;
And then he always thinks, his temper 's

such,
The work too little and the pay too much.'
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and

hearty
That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet

more,
Poor John had wellnigh wept for Bona-
parte !
Such was the wight whom Solimaun

salamed, —
1 And who are you,' John answered, • and

be d d?'



• A stranger, come to see the happiest

man —
So, signior, all avouch — in Frangistan.'
' Happy ? my tenants breaking on my hand ;
Unstocked my pastures and untilled my

land;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broad-
cloths —
Happy? — Why, cursed war and racking

tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.'
' In that case, signior, I may take my leave ;
I came to ask a favor — but I grieve ' —
' Favor?' said John, and eyed the Sultaun
hard,

• It 's my belief you came to break the

yard ! —
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign

sinner —
Take that to buy yourself a shirt and

dinner.'
With that he chucked a guinea at his

head;
But with due dignity the Sultaun said,

• Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline ;
A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.



Signior, I kiss your hands, so fare you

well.'
' Kiss and be d-
• to hell ! '



,' quoth John, ' and go



Next door to John there dwelt his sister

Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg
When the blithe bagpipe blew — but, so-
berer now,
She doucely span her flax and milked her

cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a month her house was partly

swept,
And once a week a plenteous board she

kept.
And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws
And teeth of yore on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation ;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her

boys.
John Bull, whom in their years of early

strife
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a

neighbor,
Who looked to the main chance, declined

no labor.
Loved a long grace and spoke a northern

jargon,
And was

gain.



close in making of a bar-



The Sultaun entered, and he made his

leg,
And with decorum curtsied sister Peg —
She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guessed at once with whom she had

to do.
She bade him ' Sit into the fire,' and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbuck from the

nook ;
Asked him 'about the news frqm Eastern

parts ;
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland

hearts !
If peace brought down the price of tea and

pepper,
And if the nitmugs were grown ony

cheaper ; —
Were there nae sfieerings of our Mungo

Park—
Ye '11 be the gentleman that wants the sark ?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning,
I '11 warrant ye it 's a weel-wearins: linen.'



-wearing



Online LibraryWalter ScottThe poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet → online text (page 54 of 78)