THE DREAM OF ARGYLE.1 EARTHLY arms no more uphold him, And he dreams a dream of boyhood; Now he stands amidst his clansmen Once again, with pulses beating, Thief-like from his mountains fell. Down the glen, beyond the castle, Shy feet glide and white arms twine. 1 Archibald Campbell, ninth Earl of Argyle. He fought for the royal cause at Dunbar in 1650, and in 1663 was restored to his earldom and estates. Being required to take the "Test" in 1681 he declined unless he could make a reservation in favor of the Protestant faith. For this he was condemned to death and obliged to flee the country. He returned in 1685, was taken prisoner and executed, as his father had been before him. He is said to have slept soundly a few hours before his execution. Fairest of the rustic dancers, Blue-eyed Effie smiles once more, Bends to him her snooded tresses, Treads with him the grassy floor. Now he hears the pipes lamenting, Then anon his dreams are darker, Wild Lochaber's mountain echoes Fierce and strong the godless tyrants While her poor and faithful remnant Once again at Inverary, Years of weary exile o'er, Armed to lead his scattered clansmen, Stands the bold MacCallum More. Once again to battle calling Sound the war-pipes through the glen; And the court-yard of Dunstaffnage Rings with tread of armed men. All is lost! the godless triumph, On the darkness of his dreaming From the radiant ranks of martyrs Lo, he wakes! but airs celestial Shining hosts attend and guard him And to death as to a triumph BOOT AND SADDLE. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! Chorus. Boot, saddle, to horse, and away! 1 ELIZABETH H. WHITTIER, sister of the poet, John G. Whittier. See page 322. Ride past the suburbs, asleep as you'd say; 16 Forty miles off, like a roebuck at bay, Flouts castle Brancepeth the Roundheads' array: "Good fellows ere this, by my fay, "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away Who laughs, Who? my wife Gertrude; that, honest and gay, Laughs when you talk of surrendering, "Nay!" I've better counsellors; what counsel they? Chorus. "Boot, saddle, to horse, and away ! ROBERT BROWNING. THE NORMAN BARON. In his chamber, weak and dying, In this fight was Death the gainer, And the lands his sires had plundered, By his bed a monk was seated, From the missal on his knee; And, amid the tempest pealing, Sounds of bells came faintly stealing, Bells, that from the neighboring kloster Rang for the Nativity. In the hall, the serf and vassal Held, that night, their Christmas wassail; Many a carol, old and saintly, Sang the minstrels and the waits ; And so loud these Saxon gleemen Till at length the lays they chanted Tears upon his eyelids glistened, Turned his weary head to hear. 4 Wassail for the kingly stranger And the lightning showed the sainted |