THE SCHOLAR.

My days among the Dead are pass'd
Around me I behold,

Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty Minds of Old :

My never-failing friends are they,
With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;

And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe

My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead: with them
I live in long-past years;

Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their hopes and fears;

And from their lessons seek and find
Instruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anon
My place with them will be;
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity:

Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
That will not perish in the dust.

ROBERT TANNAHILL.

1774-1810.

LOVE'S FEAR.

O sair I rue the witless wish

That gart me gang wi' you at e'en !

And sair I rue the birken bush

That screen'd us with its leaves sae green!

And though you vow'd you would be mine, The tear of grief aye dims my ee,

For O I'm fear'd that I may tine

The love that ye hae promised me

While others seek their evening sports,
I wander dowie, a' my lane:
For when I join their glad resorts

Their daffin' gie's me mickle pain.
Alas! it was na sae short syne,

When a' my nights were spent wi' glee: But O I'm fear'd that I may

tine

The love that ye hae promised me.

Dear Lassie! keep thy heart aboon,

For I hae wair'd my winter's fee: I've coft a bonnie silken gown

To be a bridal gift for thee.

And sooner shall the hills fa' down,
And mountain high shall stand the sea,

Ere I'd accept a gowden crown

To change that love I bear for thee.

MINE AIN DEAR SOMEBODY.

When gloaming treads the heels of day, And birds sit cowering on the spray, Alang the flowery hedge I stray

To meet mine ain dear Somebody.

The scented briar, the fragrant bean,
The clover bloom, the dewy green,
A' charm me as I rove at e'en

To meet mine ain dear Somebody.

Let warriors prize the hero's name!
Let mad Ambition tower for fame!
I'm happier in my lowly hame,

Obscurely bless'd wi' Somebody.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

1771-1832.

THE CLAN-GATHERING.

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu!

Pibroch of Donuil !
Wake thy wild voice anew!
Summon Clan-Conuil!
Come away! come away!
Hark 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 uninterr'd,
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!

JOCK O' HAZELDEAN.

"Why weep ye by the tide? Lady!
Why weep ye by the tide ?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye shall be his bride:
And ye shall be his bride, Lady!
Sae comely to be seen."

But aye she loot the tears downfa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"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 downfa'
For Jock o' Hazeldean.

"A chain of gold ye shall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair,

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk, Nor palfrey fresh and fair ;

But aye she loot the tears downfa'

For Jock o' Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,

The tapers glimmer'd fair;

The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,

But ne'er a bride was there.

They sought her baith by bower and ha' ;

The lady was not seen :

She's o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock o' Hazeldean.

LIGHT LOVE.

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.

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 turned his charger as he spake,

Upon the river shore;

He gave his bridle rein a shake,—

Said Adieu forevermore,

My Love!

And Adieu forevermore!