THE FORAY.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

The last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red—
Up, up, my brave kinsmen ! belt swords and begone,
There are dangers to dare and there's spoil to be won!

The eyes, that so lately mixed glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom
The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending, the wind rises loud,
The moon her red beacon has veiled with a cloud-
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient-I hear my blithe gray,
There is life in his hoof-clang and hope in his neigh:
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, and the bugle has blown ; One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and be gone : To their honour and peace that shall rest with the slain ! To their health and their glee that see Teviot again!

THE SOCIAL CUP.

CHARLES GRAY, ESQ.

The gloamin' saw us a' sit down,
An meikle mirth has been our fa';
But ca' the tither toast aroun',

Till chanticleer begin to craw.

The auld kirk bell has chappit twal',

Wha cares tho' she had chappit twa! We're light o' heart, an' winna part, Though time an' tide shou'd rin awa'.

Tut, never speir how wears the morn,
The moon's still blinkin' i' the sky;
An' gif like her we fill our horn,

I dinna doubt we'll drink it dry.
Then fill we up a social cup,

An' never mind the dapple dawn:
Just sit a while, the sun may smile,
An' light us a' across the lawn.

VOL. IV.

T

ON WI' THE TARTAN.

HUGH AINSLIE.

Do ye like, bonnie lassie,

The hills wild and free,
Where the song of the shepherd
Gaurs a' ring wi' glee;
Or the steep rocky glens

Where the wild falcons bide?

Then on wi' the tartan,

And, fy, let us ride.

Do ye like the knowes, lassie,
That ne'er were in riggs;
Or the bonnie lowne howes

Where the sweet robin biggs;

Or the sang of the linnet

When wooing his bride ?—

Then on wi' the tartan,
And, fy, let us ride.

Do ye like the burn, lassie,
That loups amang linns;
Or the sunny green holms
Where it leisurely rins,
Wi' a cantie bit housie

Built snug by its side?
Then on wi' the tartan,

And, fy, let us ride.

THE EVENING STAR.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.

Star, that bringest home the bee,
And sett'st the weary labourer free :
If any star shed peace, 'tis thou

That send'st it from above-
Appearing when heaven's breath and brow

Are sweet as hers we love.

Come to the luxuriant skies,

Whilst the landscape's odours rise;

Whilst far-off lowing herds are heard,
And songs, when toil is done,
From cottages whose smoke unstirr❜d
Curls yellow in the sun.

Star of love's soft interviews!
Parted lovers on thee muse;
Their remembrancer in heaven
Of thrilling vows thou art,
Too delicious to be riven
By absence from the heart.

THE MOON WAS A-WANING.

JAMES HOGG.

The moon was a-waning,
The tempest was over-
Fair was the maiden,

And fond was the lover;

But the snow was so deep,

That his heart it grew weary,

And he sunk down to sleep
In the moorland so dreary.

O soft was the bed

She had made for her lover,
Fu' white were the sheets,

And embroidered the cover;
But his sheets are more white,
And his canopy grander;

And sounder he sleeps

Where the hill-foxes wander.

Alas, pretty maiden,

What sorrows attend you!

I see you sit shivering

With lights at your window:

But long may you wait,

Ere your arms shall enclose him ;