Since thou hast watch'd our every need, Though nations join yon tyrant's arm, 'Mang Scotia's glens, with sword and gun, LOCK THE DOOR, LARISTON. "Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddisdale; Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on; The Armstrongs are flying, The widows are crying, The Castletown's burning, and Oliver's gone! "Lock the door, Lariston,-high on the weather-gleam See how the Saxon plumes bob on the sky Yeomen and carbinier, Bilman and halberdier, Fierce is the foray, and far is the cry! "Bewcastle brandishes high his broad scimitar; Ridley is riding his fleet-footed grey; Hidley and Howard there, Wandale and Windermere ; Lock the door, Lariston; hold them at bay. 66 Why dost thou smile, noble Elliot of Lariston? Thy foes are relentless, determined, and nigh." Jock Elliot raised up his steel bonnet and lookit, On earth there are no men More gallant to meet in the foray or chase! 66 Little know you of the hearts I have hidden here; Little know you of our moss-troopers' might— Linhope and Sorbie true, Sundhope and Milburn too; Gentle in manner, but lions in fight! 66 I have Mangerton, Ogilvie, Raeburn and Netherbie, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array ; Come all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken tower end shall the fray!" Scowled the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipped he the wold! Many a bold martial eye, Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold! Shrill was the bugle's note! dreadful the warrior's shout Lances and halberds in splinters were borne ; Helmet and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane-the proud files of the Windermere ! Howard! ah, woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!” THE BOWER OF TAY. AIR-" Maid of Isla." WEAR away, ye hues of spring, Ye blooms of summer fade away, Round the welcome season bring That leads my steps to Highland Tay. Dear to me the day-the hour, When last her winding wave I saw, But dearer still the bonnie bower That lies aneath yon greenwood shaw. Aye we sat, and aye we sighed, For there was one my arms within; Aye the restless stream we eyed, And heard its soft and soothing din: The playful breeze across the plain When lovers meet, 'tis to the mind Ettrick's fairy banks are green, And Yarrow braes are mooned with grey; But gloaming fall was never seen Like that I viewed in bower of Tay. THE BITTERN'S QUAVERING TRUMP ON HIGH. THE bittern's quavering trump on high, The beetle's drowsy distant hum,— Have sung the day's wild lullaby, And yet my Peggie is not come. The golden primrose from the wood, The scented hawthorn's snowy flower, Mixed with the laurel buds, I've strewed Deep in my Peggie's woodland bower. O come, my love! the branches link No human eye nor heavenly gem, With envious smile our bliss shall see, The mountain ash his diadem Shall spread to shield the dews from thee. O let me hear thy fairy tread Come gliding through the broomwood still; Then on my bosom lean thy head, Till dawning crown the distant hill. And I will watch thy witching smile, THE LASSIE OF YARROW. "WHAT makes my heart beat high, What makes me heave the sigh, When yon green den I spy, Lonely and narrow |