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SONG OF RICHARD FAULDER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

It's merry, it's merry, among the moonlight,
When the pipe and the cittern are sounding,
To rein, like a war-steed, my shallop, and go
O'er the bright waters merrily bounding.
It's merry, it's merry, when fair Allanbay
With its bridal candles is glancing,

To spread the white sails of my vessel, and go
Among the wild sea-waters dancing.

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
Where the roebuck is joyously ranging,
Now doomed for to roam o'er the wild fishy flood,
When the wind to all quarters is changing-

Is as safe to thy feet as the proud palace floor,
And as firm as green Skiddaw below thee;
For God has come down to the ocean's dread deeps,
His might and his mercy to show thee.

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,
He cross'd the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all;
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?'

"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,
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh,
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar
"Now tread we a measure !" said young Lochinvar.

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;
And the bride-maidens whisper'd, 'twere better by far
To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear,
When they reach'd the hall door, and the charger stood

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,
But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see.
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war,

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;
Busk ye, busk ye, man and woman!
Make haste and see our nobles pass-
The king and all his train are coming!
O! heard ye not the cannons roar,
Proclaiming loud to lord and lady,
The King is landing on our shore-
He's landed down at Leith already!

He comes! he comes in gallant trim,

Wi' robes of state, and banners streaming;
And thousands, till their sight grows dim,

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,
Or twine it of the cypress tree :
Too lively glow the lilies light,
The varnish'd holly's all too bright;
The mayflower and the eglantine
May shade a brow less sad than mine:
But, lady, weave no wreath for me,
Or weave it of the cypress tree!

Let dimpled Mirth his temples twine
With tendrils of the laughing vine;
The manly oak, the pensive yew,
To patriot and to sage be due:
The myrtle bough bids lovers live,
But that Matilda will not give ;
Then, lady, twine no wreath for me,
Or twine it of the cypress tree!

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