Walter Scott.

The poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet online

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5 i8


Then up got Peg and round the house 'gan

. In search of goods her customer to nail,
Until the Sultaun strained his princely

And holloed, 'Ma'am, that is not what

I ail.
Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug


• Happy ? ' said Peg ; ' What for d' ye want

to ken ?
Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,
Grain wadna pay the yoking of the
« What say you to the present ? ' — ' Meal s
sae dear,
To make their brose my bairns have
scarce aneugh.'
' The devil take the shirt,' said Solimaun,

* 1 think my quest will end as it began. —
Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I

beg' —
4 Ye '11 no be for the linen then ? ' said Peg.

Now, for the land of verdant Erin

The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,

The Emerald Isle where honest Paddy

The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had Johh, with words of

Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy

Till the poor lad, like boy that 's flogged

Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you '11 allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middle-men two brace,
Had screwed his rent up to the starving-
place ;
1 1 is garment was a top-coat and an old one,
His meal was a potato and a cold one ;
But still for fun or frolic and all that,
1 1) the round world was not the match of

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day :
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
and Mother Church hath from
her binns

th a bonus of imputed merit,
Then ifl Pat'i time- for fancy, whim, and

e, to caper fair and free,
And & ght as Leaf upon the tree.

Mahomet,' said Sultaun Solimaun,
it ragged fellow is our very man !

Rush in and seize him — do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt:

Shilela their plan was wellnigh after balk-
ing —

Much less provocation will set it a-walking —

But the odds that foiled Hercules foiled
Paddy Whack ;

They seized, and they floored, and they
stripped him — Alack !

Up-bubboo ! Paddy had not — a shirt to his

And the king, disappointed, with sorrow
and shame

Went back to Serendib as sad as he came-



When the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.
As near he draws and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear ;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul ; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.
No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile ;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day —
All these endured no favor claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too who ply the Thespian art
Oft feel such bodings of the heart,
And when our utmost powers are strained
Dare hardly hope your favor gained.
She who from sister-climes has sought
The ancient land where Wallace fought —
Land long renowned for arms and arts,
And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts —
She, as the flutterings here avow,
Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now ;
Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'T is yours the hospitable task
To give the applause she dare not ask ;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.



fflx. Hemble's JFatefoell gtooress.


As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's

Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the

ground —
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near ;
To think my scenic hour forever past,
And that those valued plaudits are my last.
Why should we part, while still some

powers remain,
That in your service strive not yet in vain ?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth

And sense of duty fire the fading eye ;
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude ?
Ah, no ! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows ;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renewed, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of

Yes ! It were poor, remembering what I

To live a pensioner on your applause,
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could

Till every sneering youth around enquires,
1 Is this the man who once could please

our sires ? '
And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful

To warn me off from the encumbered scene.
This must not be ; — and higher duties

Some space between the theatre and the

That, like the Roman in the Capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall :
My life's brief act in public service flown,
The last, the closing scene, must be my


Here, then, adieu ! while yet some well-
graced parts
May fix an ancient favorite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men :
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine for-
get —

O, how forget ! — - how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft returned with

fame !
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakespeare's magic

Till the full burst of inspiration came,
And I have felt, and you have fanned the

flame !
By mem'ry treasured, while her reign

Those hours must live — and all their

charms are yours.

O favored Land ! renowned for arts and

For manly talent, and for female charms,
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking

What fervent benedictions now were thine !
But my last part is played, my knell is

When e'en your praise falls faltering from

my tongue ;
And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is — Friends and Patrons, hail, and fare


GTJje &un upon tfje OTefroIafo %i\\.


Ritnhin aluin 'stu mo run."

The sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill

In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet ;
The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore,
Though evening with her richest dye

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain

I see Tweed's silver current glide,
And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride.
The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree —
Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me ?

Alas ! the warped and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye ?
The harp of strained and tuneless chord.

How to the minstrel's skill reply ?
To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill ;
And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.



Ctje ilHonfcs of Bangor'* JKattfj.


[I8l 7 .]
Air — " Ymdaith Mionge."

When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangor's fair Abbaye ;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine !

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doomed to feel unhallowed hand ?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine !

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill :
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine /

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid :
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung and bread unbroke ;
For their souls for charity,

Sing, O miserere, Domine !

Bangor ! o'er the murder wail !
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shattered towers and broken arch
Long recalled the woful march :
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return ;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine !

(Epilogue to tfje appeal.

Bl MRS. IIKNKY MI. DONS, FEB. l6, l8l8.

A j vi <>i \<>ic or else old >Esop lied —
Was changed into a fair and blooming

hut spied a mouse upon her marriage-day,

Forgot her spouse and seized upon her

prey ;
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you

Threw off poor me and pounced upon papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made

He twisted round my sire's the literal

Such are the fruits of our dramatic labor
Since the New Jail became our next-door


Yes, times are changed ; for in your

father's age
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage :
However high advanced by future fate,
There stands the bench [points to the Pit]

that first received their weight.
The future legal sage 't was ours to see
Doom though unwigged and plead without

a fee.

But now, astounding each poor mimic elf,

Instead of lawyers comes the law herself ;

Tremendous neighbor, on our right she

Builds high her towers and excavates her
cells ;

While on the left she agitates the town

With the tempestuous question, Up or

'Twixt Scyllaand Charybdis thus stand we,

Law's final end and law's uncertainty.

But, soft ! who lives at Rome the Pope
must flatter,

And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter.

Then — just farewell ! We wait with seri-
ous awe

Till your applause or censure gives the law.

Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye.

We hold you Court and Counsel. Judge
and Jury.

ifHarfmmmon'0 3Lammt.

Air — " Cha till mi luille."

Macleod's wizard flag from the gray castle

The rowers are seated, unmoored are the
galleys ;

Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang tar-
get and quiver,

As Mackrimmon sings, ' Farewell to Dun-
vegan forever !

Farewell to each cliff on which breakers
are foaming;



Farewell, each dark glen in which red-deer

are roaming ;
Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain,

and river ;
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall

never !

' Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan

are sleeping ;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that

are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell ! — and

forever —
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you

never !
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-
dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs

o'er me ;
But my heart shall not flag and my nerves

shall not shiver,
Though devoted I go — to return again

never !

4 Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's

Be heard when the Gael on their exile are

sailing ;
Dear land ! to the shores whence unwilling

we sever
Return — return — return shall we never !
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille !
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrim-
mon !'

©onalti ©atrti 's come again.


Air — " Malcolm Caird 's come again."

Donald Caird 's come again !
Donald Caird 's come again !
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blithely dance the Hieland fling,
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind ;
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man ;
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again.

Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Tell the news in brugh and glen,

Donald Caird 's come again.

Donald Caird can wire a maukin,
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin',
Leisters kipper, makes a shift
To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift ;
Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,
He can wauk when they are sleepers ;
Not for bountith or reward
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird.

Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Gar the bagpipes hum amain,

Donald Caird s come again.

Donald Caird can drink a gill
Fast as hostler-wife can fill ;
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor
Kens how Donald bends a bicker ;
When he's fou he 's stout and saucy,
Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey;
Hieland chief and Lawland laird
Maun gie room to Donald Caird !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Tell the news in brugh and glen,

Donald Caird 's come again.

Steek the amrie, lock the kist,
Else some gear may weel be mist ;
Donald Caird finds orra things
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings ;
Dunts of kebbuck, taits o' woo,
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow,
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard —
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Dinna let the Shirra ken

Donald Caird 's come again.

On Donald Caird the doom was stern.
Craig to tether, legs to aim ;
But Donald Caird wi' mickle study
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie ;
Rings of aim, and bolts of steel,
Fell like ice frae hand and heel !
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Donald Caird 's come again !

Dinna let the Justice ken

Donald Caird 's come again.

^pttapjj on fflx&. (£rskme.


Plain as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resigned ;
Unflawed and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form and candid soul. —



But, O, what symbol may avail to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense we loved so

well !
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and

wife !
Or on the tablet stamp each title dear
By which thine urn, Euphemia, claims the

Yet taught by thy meek sufferance to as-
sume ,
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resigned, though sad, this votive verse

shall flow,
And brief, alas ! as thy brief span below.

©n iEttricfc Jorest's JHountams Uun.


On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun

'T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,

And seek the heath-frequenting brood

Far through the noonday solitude ;

By many a cairn and trenched mound

Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,

And springs where gray-haired shepherds

That still the fairies love to dwell.

Alon<£ the silver streams of Tweed
'T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings ;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.

'T is blithe along the midnight tide
With stalwart arm the boat to guide ;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like Genii armed with fiery spears.

"I is blithe at eve to tell the tale
How ire succeed and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal,
< )r lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While tin L cheerly shine,

e and Hows the wine —
Days free from though 1 and nights from

My blessing on the Korest fair.

&f)e JHattj of Ma.



Air — " The Maid of Is/a."

O Maid of Isla, from the cliff

That looks on troubled wave and sky.
Dost thou not see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly ?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge.

And steeped her leeward deck in foam.
Why does she war unequal urge ? —

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wing gleams through mist and
Against the storm-cloud lowering dark,

As to the rock she wheels away ; —
Where clouds are dark and billows rave,

Why to the shelter should she come
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave ? —

O maid of Isla, 'tis her home !

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring,
And cold as is yon wintry cliff

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing.
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come :
For in thy love or in his grave

Must Allan Vourich find his home.

tfarefmll to tfje ilEuse.


Enchantress, farewell, who so oft has
decoyed me
At the close of the evening through
woodlands to roam,
Where the forester lated with wonder
espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting
for home.
Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers
wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and
O ! none but some lover whose heart-strings
are breaking
The pang that I feel at our parting can
know !



Each joy thou couldst double, and when
there came sorrow
Or pale disappointment to darken my
What voice was like thine, that could sing
of to-morrow
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of
to-day !
But when friends drop around us in life's
weary waning,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst
not assuage ;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet
The languor of pain and the dullness of

T was thou that once taught me in accents
To sing how a warrior lay stretched on
the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid un-
And held to his lips the cold goblet in
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of
wild Numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his fancy
is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy
slumbers —
Farewell, then, Enchantress ; — I meet
thee no more.

W§z Bamtatjme (£lufo.

Assist me, ye friends of Old Books and
Old Wine,

To sing in the praises of sage Bannatyne,

Who left such a treasure of old Scottish

As enables each age to print one volume
One volume more, my friends, one

volume more,
We '11 ransack old Banny for one vol-
ume more.

And first, Allan Ramsay, was eager to

From Bannatyne's Hortus his bright Ever-
green ;

Two light little volumes — intended for
four —

Still leave us the task to print one volume

One volume more, etc.

His ways were not ours, for he cared not

a pin
How much he left out or how much he put

in ;
The truth of the reading he thought was a

So this accurate age calls for one volume


One volume more, etc.

Correct and sagacious, then came my Lord

And weighed every letter in critical scales,
But left out some brief words which the

prudish abhor,
And castrated Banny in one volume more.
One volume more, my friends, one

volume more ;
We '11 restore Banny's manhood in one

volume more.

John Pinkerton next, and I 'm truly con-

I can't call that worthy so candid as learned ;

He railed at the plaid and blasphemed the

And set Scots by the ears in his One vol-
ume more,
One volume more, my friends, one

volume more,
Celt and Goth shall be pleased with one
volume more.

As bitter as gall and as sharp as a razor,
And feeding on herbs as a Nebuchadnezzar ;
His diet too acid, his temper too sour,
Little Ritson came out with his two volumes
But one volume, my friends, one volume

We '11 dine on roast-beef and print one
volume more.

The stout Gothic yeditur, next on the roll,
With his beard like a brush and as black

as a coal ;
And honest Greysteel that was true to the

Lent their hearts and their hands each to

one volume more.

One volume more, etc.

Since by these single champions what

wonders were done,
What may not be achieved by our Thirty

and One ?
Law, Gospel, and Commerce, we count in,

our corps,
And the Trade and the Press join for one

volume more.

One volume more, etc.



Ancient libels and contraband books, I
assure ye,

We '11 print as secure from Exchequer or

Then hear your Committee and let them
count o'er

The Chiels they intend in their three vol-
umes more.

Three volumes more, etc.

They'll produce you King Jamie, the sa-
pient and Sext,

And the Rob of Dumblane and her Bishops
come next ;

One tome miscellaneous they '11 add to
your store,

Resolving next year to print four volumes
Four volumes more, my friends, four

volumes more ;
Pay down your subscriptions for four
volumes more.



ronan's WELL."


[Enter Meg Dodds, encircled by a crowd of unruly
boys, whom a town 1 s-officer is driving off.]

That 's right, friend — drive the gaitlings

And lend yon muckle ane a whack ;
Your Embro' bairns are grown a pack,

Sae proud and saucy,
They scarce will let an auld wife walk
Upon your causey.

I 've seen the day they would been scaured
Wi' the Tolbooth or wi' the Guard,
Or maybe wud hae some regard

For Jamie Laing —
The Water-hole was right weel wared

On sic a gang.

But whar 's the gude Tolbooth gane now ?
Whar 's the auld Caught, wi' red and blue ?
Whar 's Jamie Laing ? and whar 's JohnDoo ?

And whar 's the Weigh-house ?
Deil hae't I see but what is new,

Except the Playhouse !

Yoursells are changed frae head to heel,
There \s some that gar the causeway reel
With clashing hufe and rattling wheel,
And horses canterin',

Wha's fathers' daundered hame as weel
Wi' lass and lantern.

Mysell being in the public line,

I look for howfs I kenned lang syne,

Whar gentles used to drink gude wine

And eat cheap dinners ;
But deil a soul gangs there to dine

Of saints or sinners !

Fortune's and Hunter's gane, alas !
And Bayle's is lost in empty space ;
And now if folk would splice a brace

Or crack a bottle,
They gang to a new-fangled place

They ca' a Hottle.

The deevil hottle them for Meg !
They are sae greedy and sae gleg,
That if ye 're served but wi' an egg —

And that 's puir picking —
In comes a chiel and makes a leg,

And charges chicken !

' And wha may ye be,' gin ye speer,

' That brings your auld-warld clavers here ?

Troth, if there 's onybody near

That kens the roads,
I '11 haud ye. Burgundy to beer

I came a piece frae west o' Currie ;
And, since I see you 're in a hurry,
Your patience I '11 nae langer worry,

But be sae crouse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray

That keeps this house.

Plays are auld-fashioned things in truth,
And ye 've seen wonders mair uncouth ;
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth

Or want of dramock,
Although they speak but wi' their mouth,

Not with their stamock.

But ye take care of a' folk's pantry ;
And surely to hae stooden sentry
Ower this big house — that 's far frae rent-
free —

For a lone sister,
Is claims as gude 's to be a ventri —

How'st ca'd — loquister.

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care
The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair ;
For gin they do, she tells you fair

And without failzie,
As sure as ever ye sit there,

She '11 tell the Bailie.





The sages — for authority, pray, look
Seneca's morals or the copy-book —
The sages to disparage woman's power,
Say beauty is a fair but fading flower ; —
I cannot tell — I 've small philosophy —
Yet if it fades it does not surely die,
But, like the violet, when decayed in bloom,
Survives through many a year in rich per-
fume. x
Witness our theme to-night ; two ages

A third wanes fast, since Mary filled the

Brief was her bloom with scarce one sunny

'Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay :
But when, while Scottish hearts and blood

you boast,
Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost ?
O'er Mary's memory the learned quarrel,
By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel,
Time's echo, old tradition, makes her

The constant burden of his faltering

theme ;
In each old hall his gray-haired heralds

tell * y

Of Mary's picture and of Mary's cell,
And show — my fingers tingle at the

thought —
The loads of tapestry which that poor

queen wrought.
In vain did fate bestow a double dower
Of every ill that waits on rank and power,
Of every ill on beauty that attends —
False ministers, false lovers, and false

Spite of three wedlocks so completely

Online LibraryWalter ScottThe poetical works of Sir Walter Scott, Baronet → online text (page 55 of 78)