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not various; 'tis the poetry of passion Shall bear the scroll of doom ?
rather than of imagination; and pas-

So shout the Scalds, as the long ships sion dwells on what it heaps up,

are nearing rejoicing as it accumulates, even as The low-lying shores of a beautiful land, in battle the hero piles up slaughter, but notes them not curiously, though

Silent the Self-devoted stood
eyeing grim all the ghastly wounds.

Beside the massive tree;
On the voyage, we hear the flap-

His image mirror'd in the flood
ping of canvass—the straining of

Was terrible to see !

As leaning on his gleaming axe,
cordage—the creaking of bulkheads
-the quivering of planks - the

And gazing on the wave,

His fearless soul was churning up groaning of knee-timbers

The death-rune of the brave.
“ The shouting and the jolly cheers, Upheaving then his giant form
The bustle of the mariners,

Upon the brown bark's prow,
In stillness and in storm."

And tossing back the yellow storm

Of hair from his broad brow;
And high overhead, like a lurid me-
teor that will not forsake the trou-

The lips of song burst open, and

The words of fire rushed out,
bled atmosphere in which the ship
rejoices, "Sigurd's Battle Flag,

And thundering through that martial tinging the black aspect of the sea

Pealed Harald's battle shout;with blood.

It is Harald the Dauntless that listeth his THE BATTLE-FLAG OF SIGURD.

great voice,

As the Northmen roll on with the Doom.
The eagle hearts of all the North

written banner.
Have left their stormy strand;
The warriors of the world are forth

“ I bear Sigurdir's battle-flag
To choose another land !

Through sunshine, or through gloom; Again, their long keels sheer the

Through swelling surge on bloody wave,

Their broad sheets court the breeze;

I plant the scroll of doom !
Again, the reckless and the brave,

On Scandia's lonest, bleakest waste,
Ride lords of weltering seas.

Beneath a starless sky,
Nor swifter from the well-bent bow

The Shadowy Three like meteors
Can feathered shaft be sped,

Than o'er the ocean's flood of snow And bad young Harald die ;-
Their snoring galleys tread.

They sang the war-deeds of bis sires,
Then lift the can to bearded lip,

And pointed to their tomb;
And smite each sounding shield,

They told him that this glory-ilag
Wassaile ! to every dark-ribbed ship, Was his by right of doom.
To every battle-field!

Since then, where hath young Harald
So proudly the Scalds raise their voices

of triumph,

But where Jarl's son should be?
As the Nortbmen ride over the broad.

'Mid war and waves--the combat keen bosom'd billow.

That raged on land or sea.”

So sings the fierce Harald, the thirster for Aloft, Sigurdir's battle-flag

glory, Streams onward to the land,

As his hand bears aloft the dark death.
Well may the taint of slaughter lag

laden banner.
On yonder glorious strand.
The waters of the mighty deep,

" Mine own death's in this clenched The wild birds of the sky,

Hear it like vengeance shoreward I know the noble trust;

These limbs must rot on yonder
Where moody men must die.

The waves wax wroth beneath our These lips must lick its dust;

But shall this dusky standard quail
The clouds above us lower,

In the red slaughter day,
They know the battle-sign, and feel Or shall this heart its purpose fail-
All its resistless power!

This arm forget to slay ?
Who now uprears Sigurdir's flag, I trample down such idle doubt ;
Nor shuns an early tomb?

Harald's high blood bath sprung
Who shoreward through the swelling

From sires whose hands in martial bout surge,

Have ne'er belied their tongue;

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Nor keener from their castled rock In starkest fight, where kemp on kemp Rush eagles on their prey,

Reel headlong to the grave, Than, panting for the battle-shock, There Harald's axe shall ponderous Young Harald leads the way."

ring, It is thus that tall Harald, in terrible There Sigurd's flag shall wave ;beauty,'

Yes, underneath this standard tall, Pours forth his big soul to the joyaunce

Beside this fateful scroll, of heroes.

Down shall the tower-like prison fall

Of Harald's haughty soul.” “ The ship-borne warriors of the So sings the Death-seeker, while nearer

and nearer North, The sons of Woden's race,

The fleet of the Northmen bears down to

the shore.
To battle as to feast go forth,
With stern, and changeless face;
And I the last of a great line-

“ Green lie those thickly timbered

shores The Self-devoted, long To lift on high the Runic sign

Fair sloping to the sea; Which gives my name to song.

They're cumbered with the harvest

stores In battle-field young Harald falls Amid a slaughtered foe,

That wave but for the free; But backward never bears this flag,

Our sickle is the gleaming sword, Wbile streams to ocean flow;

Our garner the broad shieldOn, on above the crowded dead

Let peasants sow, but still he's lord This Runic scroll shall flare,

Who's master of the field; And round it shall the lightnings

Let them come on, the bastard.born, spread,

Each soil-stain'd churle !-alack ! From swords that never spare.”

What gain they but a splitten skull, So rush the hero-words from the Death

A sod for their base back? doomed one,

They sow for us these goodly lands, While Scalds harp aloud the renown of

We reap them in our might, his fathers.

Scorning all title but the brands

That triumph in the fight." " Flag! from your folds, and fiercely

It was thus the land-winners of old gained wake

their glory, War-music on the wind,

And grey stones voiced their praise in the Lest tenderest thoughts should rise to

bays of far isles. shake The sternness of my mind;

“ The rivers of yon island low, Brynhilda, maiden meek and fair,

Glance redly in the sun, Pale watcher by the sea,

But ruddier still they're doom'd to I hear thy wailings on the air,

glow, Thy beart's dirge sung for me;

And deeper shall they run ; In vain thy milk-white hands are wrung The torrent of proud life shall swell Above the salt sea foam ;

Each river to the brim, The wave that bears me from thy bower, And in that spate of blood, how well Shall never bear me home;

The headless corpse will swim! Brynbilda! seek another love,

The smoke of many a shepherd's cot But ne'er wed one like me,

Curls from each peopled glen ; Who death-foredoomed from above, And, lark! the song of maidens mild, Joys in his destiny."

The shout of joyous men! Thus mourned young Harald as he thought But one may liew the oaken tree, on Brynhilda,

The other shape the shroud : While his eyes filled with tears which As the LANDEYDA O'er the sea glittered, but fell not.

Sweeps like a tempest cloud !"

So shouteth fierce Harald--so echo the “On sweeps Sigurdir's battie-flag,

Northmen, The scourge of far frem shore ; As shoreward their ships like mad steeds It dashes through the seething foam,

are careering But I return no more! Wedded unto a fatal bride

“ Sigurdir's battle-flag is spread Boune for a bloody bed

Abroad to the blue sky,
And battling for her, side by side, And spectral visions of the dead
Young Harald's doom is sped !

Are trooping grimly by;

The spirit heralds rush before

Of black steed or grey, Harald's destroying brand,

Though sweltering it gallop They hover o'er yon fated shore

A long summer's day; And death-devoted band.

Which mete forth the lordships Marshal, stout Jarls, your battle fast !

I challenge as mine; And fire each beacon height,

Ha! ha! 'tis the good brand Our galleys anchor in the sound,

I clutch in my strong hand, Our banner heaves in sight!

That can their broad marches And through the surge and arrowy And numbers define. shower

LAND Giyer ! I kiss thee.
That rains on this broad shield,
Harald uplifts the sign of power

Dull builders of houses,
Which rules the battle-field!"

Base tillers of earth, So cries the Death-doomed on the red Gaping, ask me what lordships strand of slaughter,

I own'd at my birth; While the helmets of heroes like anvils But the pale fools wax mute are ringing.

When I point with my sword

East, west, north, and south, On rolled the Northmen's war, above Shouting, “ There am I Lord!" The Raven Standard flew,

Wold and waste, town and tower, Nor tide nor tempest ever strove

Hill, valley, and stream, With vengeance half so true.

Trembling, bow to my sway 'Tis Harald—'tis the Sire-bereaved- In the fierce battle fray, Wbo goads the dread career,

When the star that rules Fate, is And high amid the flashing storm

This falchion's red gleam. The flag of Doom doth rear.

Might GIVER ! I kiss thee. “ On, on,” the tall Death-seeker cries,

I've heard great harps sounding, " These earth-worms soil our heel,

In brave bower and hall, Their spear-points crash like crisping

I've drank the sweet music ice, On ribs of stubborn steel !"

That bright lips let fall,

I've hunted in greenwood,
Hurra! hurra! their whirlwinds sweep,

And heard small birds sing ;
And Harald's fate is sped;
Bear on the flag--he goes to sleep

But away with this idle

And cold jargoning ; With the life-scorning dead.

The music I love, is Thus fell the young Harald, as of old fell

The shout of the brave, his sires,

The yell of the dying, And the bright hall of heroes bade hail to

The scream of the flying, his spirit!

When this arm wield's Death's sickle, That-we say-is first-rate fight- And garners the grave. ing. Cutting and thrusting-stab- Joy Giver! I kiss thee. bing and splitting — hewing and

Far isles of the ocean cleaving—and all in a spirit of bois. terous revelry, love of fame free- Thy lightning have known,

And wide o'er the main land dom and females, pride of land the birth-place, and of sea the cradle of Thy horrors have shone. heroes, and to make its passion

Great sword of my father, thick and “slab” as it overboils, the

Stern joy of his hand,

Thou hast carved his name deep on lust of blood.

The stranger's red strand, Now for the “Sword Song," al

And won him the glory ready not a little famous-for we

Of undying song. have heard it chanted by one who

Keen cleaver of gay crests, troubles not his head about poetry,

Sharp piercer of broad breasts, but who clove skull-cap and skull of

Grim slayer of heroes, more than one cuirassier at Water

And courage of the strong. loo.

FAME GIVER ! I kiss thee.


'Tis not the grey hawk's flight

O'er mountain and mere; 'Tis not the fleet hound's course

Tracking the deer; 'Tis not the light hoof print

In a love more abiding

Tban that the beart knows,
For maiden more lovely

Than summer's first rose,
My heart's knit to thine,

And lives but for thee;

In dreamings of gladness,

JEANNIE MORRISON, Thou’rt dancing with me,

I've wandered east, I've wandered west, Brave measures of madness

Through mony a weary way: In some battle-field,

But never, never can forget Where armour is ringing,

The luve o' life's young day! And noble blood springing,

The fire that's blawn on Beltane e'en, And cloven, yawn helmet,

May weel be black gin Yule; Stout hauberk and shield.

But blacker fa' awaits the heart Death GIVER ! I kiss thee.

Where first fond luve grows cule. The smile of a maiden's eye

O dear, dear Jeannie Morrison, Soon may depart;

The thochts o' bygane years And light is the faith of

Still Aling their shadows ower my path, Fair woman's heart;

And blind my een wi' tears : Changeful as light clouds,

They blind my een wi' saut saut tears, And wayward as wind, Be the passions that govern

And sair and sick I pine, Weak woman's mind.

As memory idly summons up

The blithe blinks o'langsyne.
But thy metal's as true
As its polish is bright;

'Twas then we luvit ilk ither weel, When ills wax in number,

'Twas then we twa did art; Thy love will not slumber,

Sweet time-sad time! twa bairns at But, starlike, burns fiercer, The darker the night.

scule, HEART GLADENER ! I kiss thee.

Twa bairns, and but ae heart!
'Twas then we sat on ae laigh bink,

To leir ilk ither lear;
My kindred have perish'a

And tones, and looks, and smiles were By war or by wave

shed, Now, childless and sireless,

Remember'd evermair.
I long for the grave.
When the path of our glory
Is shadow'd in death,

I wonder, Jeanie, aften yet,
With me thou wilt slumber

When sitting on that bink,
Below the brown heath;

Cheek touchin' cheek, loof lock'd in Thou wilt rest on my bosom

loof, And with it decay

What our wee heads could think? While harps shall be ringing,

When baith bent doun ower ae braid And Scalds shall be singing

page, The deeds we bave done in

Wi' ae buik on our knee,
Our old fearless day.

Thy lips were on thy lesson, but
SONG GIVER ! I kiss thee.

My lesson was in thee. The transition is pleasant from Oh, mind ye how we hung our heads, storm to calm-80 turn we now to

How cheeks brent red wi' shame, the Pathetic-another kind of poetry Whene'er the scule-weans laughin said, in which Motherwell excels. Yea We cleek'd

gither hame? excels. Wordsworth speaks of And mind ye oʻthe Saturdays, old songs that are the music of the

(The scule then skail't at noon), heart," and they overflow Scotland. When we ran aff to speel the braes – Some are mirthful-but more are The broomy braes o' June ? melancholy-and many so sadairs and all-that a sobbing will at My head rins round and round about, times interrupt the voice of the My heart flows like a sea, maiden at her wheel, singing to her- As

ane by ane the thochts rush back self

O' scule-time and othee. “ Of sorrows suffer'd long ago."

Oh, mornin' life! oh, mornin' luye !

Oh lichtsome days and lang, Motherwell has imbibed the very When hinnied hopes around our hearts soul of such strains as these-nor is Like simmer blossoms sprang! he here inferior-we say it advisedly—to Burns. Has either the Shep- Oh mind ye, luve, how aft we left herd or Allan Cuninghame, in their The deavin' dinsome toun, happiest veins, surpassed Mother. To wander by the green burnside, well in his “ Jeanie Morrison ?”

And hear its water's croon?

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads tenderest human sympathies for the

The flowers burst round our feet, Christian sufferer. Lovestrongerthan And in the gloamin o' the wood,

life, and unchanged while life is dimly The throssil whusslit sweet;

fading away, possesses the bosom of

the poor forgiving girl, along with pity The throssil whusslit in the wood, for his sakealmost overcoming sorrow The burn sang to the trees,

for her own, with keen self-reproach And we with Nature's heart in tune,

and humble penitence for the guilt Concerted harmonies;

into which they two had been beAnd on the knowe abune the burn, For hours thegither sat

trayed-once too happy in their in

nocence. 'Tis not the voice of comIn the silentness o' joy, till baith Wi' very gladness grat.

plaint but of contrition; and through

her trouble there are glimpses of Ay, ay, dear Jeanie Morrison,

peace. In that anguish we hear the Tears trinkled doun your cheel,

breathings of a pure spirit-pure Like dew-beads on a rose, yet nane

though frail—and delicate though Had ony power to speak !

fallen-and feel in such ruin how That was a time, a blessed time,

fatal indeed is sin, It is utterly When hearts were fresh and young,

mournful. When freely gush'd all feelings forth,

MY HEID IS LIKE TO RCND, WILLIE. Unsyllabled-unsung!

My heid is like to rend, Willie,

My heart is like to breakI marvel, Jeanie Morrison,

I'm wearin' aff my feet, Willie, Gin I hae been to thee

I'm dyin' for your sake! As closely twined wi' earliest thochts,

Oh lay your cheek to mine, Willie, As ye hae been to me?

Your hand on my briest-baneOh! tell me gin their music fills

Oh say ye'll think on me, Willie,
Thine ear as it does mine;

When I am deid and gane !
Oh! say gin e'er your heart grows grit
Wi' dreamings o' langsyne?

It's vain to comfurt me, Willie,

Sair grief maun ha'e its will
I've wander'd east, I've wander'd west, But let me rest upon your briest,
I've borne a weary lot;

To sab and greet my fill.
But in my wand'rings, far or near, Let me sit on your knec, Willie,
Ye never were forgot.

Let me shed by your hair,
The fount that first burst frae this heart, And look into the face, Willie,
Still travels on its way;

I never sall see mair!
And channels deeper as it rins,
The luve o' life's young day.

I'm sittin' on your knee, Willie,

For the last time in my lifeO dear, dear Jeanie Morrison,

A puir heart-broken thing, Willie,
Since we were sindered young,

A mither, yet nae wife.
I've never seen your face, nor heard Ay, press your hand upon my heart,
The music o' your tongue ;

And press it mair and mair-
But I could hug all wretchedness, Or it will burst the silken twine,
And happy could I die,

Sae strang is its despair !
Did I but ken your heart still dream'd
O' bygane days and me!”

Oh wae's me for the hour, Willie,

When we thegither metNor are the lines which follow less Oh wae's me for the time, Willie, touching; indeed their sadness is That our first tryst was set ! more profound—and it would be Oh wae's me for the loanin' green almost painful, but for the exqui

Where we were wont to gaesite simplicity of the language, in And wae's me for the destinie, which there is a charm that softens

That gart me luve thee sae ! the “pathos too severe.” 'Tis an Oh! dinna mind my words, Willie, old story;

I downa seek to blame“ Familiar matter of to-day,

But oh! it's hard to live, Willie, Which has been and will be again;

And dree a warld's shame!

Het tears are hailin' ower your cheek, but never before told more affecting- And hailin' ower your chin; ly, or so as to waken more overflow. Why weep ye sae for worthlessness, ingly from their deepest fount all our For sorrow and for sin ?


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