"She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur; They'll have fleet steeds that follow," quoth young

Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan;

Fosters, 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?

M

BORDER BALLAD

From THE MONASTERY

SIR WALTER SCOTT

ARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale,

Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order?

March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale,

All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border.
Many a banner spread,

Flutters above your head,

Many a crest that is famous in story.
Mount and make ready then,

Sons of the mountain glen,

Fight for the Queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance and the bow. Trumpets are sounding,

War-steeds are bounding;

Stand to your arms, and march in good order,
England shall many a day

Tell of the bloody fray,

When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

CHILDE HAROLD'S FAREWELL TO

A

ENGLAND

LORD BYRON

DIEU, adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue;

The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea,
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My Native Land-Good-night.

A few short hours and he will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,

Its hearth is desolate;

Wild weeds are gathering on the wall;
My dog howls at the gate.

"Come hither, hither, my little page!
Why dost thou weep and wail?
Or dost thou dread the billows' rage,
Or tremble at the gale?

But dash the tear-drop from thine eye;
Our ship is swift and strong;
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly
More merrily along."

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high,

I fear not wave nor wind:

Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I
Am sorrowful in mind;

For I have from my father gone,

A mother whom I love,

And have no friend, save thee alone, and One above.

But thee

"My father bless'd me fervently,
Yet did not much complain.;
But sorely will my mother sigh
Till I come back again.”.
"Enough, enough, my little lad!
Such tears become thine eye;
If I thy guileless bosom had,
Mine own would not be dry."

THE NIGHT BEFORE WATERLOO

LORD BYRON

HERE was a sound of revelry by night,

THER

And Belgium's capital had gather'd then

Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell;

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it? - No; 'twas but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet

But hark! that heavy sound breaks in once more,
As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! arm!-it is it is the cannon's opening roar!

Within a window'd niche of that high hall

Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did hear

That sound the first amidst the festival,

And caught its tone with Death's prophetic ear;