SONG OF RICHARD FAULDER. ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. It's merry, it's merry, among the moonlight, To spread the white sails of my vessel, and go And it's blithesomer still, when the storm is come on, And the Solway's wild waves are ascending In huge and dark curls-and the shaven masts groan, And the canvas to ribbons is rending; When the dark heaven stoops down unto the dark deep, And the thunder speaks 'mid the commotion :Awaken and see, ye who slumber and sleep, The might of the Lord on the ocean! This frail bark, so late growing green in the wood Is as safe to thy feet as the proud palace floor, YOUNG LOCHINVAR. SIR WALTER SCOTT. O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west, Through all the wide border his steed was the best; And, save his good broad sword, he weapons had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar. He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, The bride had consented, the gallant came late : So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall, Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all; "I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ;— Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide— And now I am come, with this lost love of mine To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up, So stately his form, and so lovely her face, One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, near; So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, So light to the saddle before her he sprung! She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow, quoth young Loch invar. There was mounting 'mong Graemes of the Netherby clan; Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran; There was racing and chasing, on Cannobie lee, Have ye e'er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar ? THE KING'S LANDING AT LEITH. JOHN MAYNE, ESQ. O! busk ye, busk ye, lad and lass; He comes! he comes in gallant trim, Wi' robes of state, and banners streaming; Wi' tears of rapt'rous joy are beaming! O, welcome! welcome to this land This land where all the Virtues blossom! Our men shall guard thee, heart and hand— Our ladies press thee to their bosom ! THE CYPRESS WREATH. SIR WALTER SCOTT. O lady, twine no wreath for me, Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine |