ROKEBY. 1812. WALTER SCOTT. O, BRIGNALL BANKS ARE WILD AND FAIR. FROM CANTO III. (xvI.) BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there, Would grace a summer queen. Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily, CHORUS. "O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, I'd rather rove with Edmund there, "If, Maiden, thou would'st wend with me, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down? And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed, CHORUS. Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair (XVII.) I read you, by your bugle-horn, I read you for a Ranger sworn, To keep the king's green-wood.""A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, CHORUS. Yet sung she, "Brignall banks are fair, I would I were with Edmund there, With burnished brand and musketoon, I read you for a bold Dragoon, "I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.”— CHORUS. "And, O! though Brignall banks be fair, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, (XVIII.) Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead,38 Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met, Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, $9 CHORUS. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And you may gather garlands there THE LORD OF THE ISLES. 1814. SIR WALTER SCOTT. LAKE CORISKIN. FROM CANTO III. (XIII.) A WHILE their route they silent made, Till the good Bruce to Ronald said, Where safety more than pleasure led; A scene so rude, so wild as this, Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press (XIV.) No marvel thus the Monarch spake; For rarely human eye has known A scene so stern as that dread lake, With its dark ledge of barren stone. Seems that primeval earthquake's sway Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show But here,-above, around, below, Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, The weary eye may ken. For all is rocks at random thrown, Black waves, bare crags, and banks of stone, The summer sun, the spring's sweet dew, The bleakest mountain-side. (xv.) And wilder, forward as they wound, Hurl'd headlong in some night of fear, And some, chance-poised and balanced, lay, |