ÆäÀÌÁö À̹ÌÁö
PDF
ePub

And to the fold the milky mothers brings.

Then frolic nymphs and swains with sportful glee;
Pure are their hearts and their behaviour free;
The foaming pails, which snowy floods o'erflow,
Raised on their heads, they singing homeward go.

See how their arms these sturdy mowers wield! How smooth behind them shines the ravished field! Swinging their formidable scythes around,

Each sweep lays bare a mighty length of ground.
Their work behind the active rakers ply,

The fragrant herbs around them lightly fly;
The panting steeds drag slow the groaning wain,
And deep the wheels imprint the yielding plain;
The maids pile up the stack, while from below
The hay into their arms their lovers throw.

The reapers next appear, a merry band;
A sharp-toothed sickle shines in every hand.
Subdued before them falls the yielding grain,
Behind, long lines of sheaves load thick the plain.
Band strives with band, and harmless dispute breeds;
The rustic jest, the noisy laugh succeeds.
As they advance, their lord with lessening fear
Sees crowned the hopes and labours of the year,
And in his barn-yard lodged, a treasure shines,
More precious than the wealth of Indian mines.
His weary nymphs and swains behold him call
To dear-earned banquet in his rustic hall;
With ale and music their plain hearts they cheer,
Dance, and forget the labours of the year.

THE FALLS OF CLYDE.

WHERE ancient Corehouse hangs above the stream,
And far beneath the tumbling surges gleam,
Engulphed in crags the fretting river raves,
Chafed into foam resound his tortured waves.
With giddy heads we view the dreadful deep,
And cattle snort and tremble at the steep,
Where down at once the foaming waters pour,
And tottering rocks repel the deafening roar.
Viewed from below, it seems from heaven they fell;
Seen from above, they seem to sink to hell;
But when the deluge pours from every hill,
And Clyde's wide bed ten thousand torrents fill,
His rage the murmuring mountain streams augment,
Redoubled rage in rocks so closely pent.

Then shattered woods, with ragged roots uptorn,
And herds and harvests down the waves are borne.
Huge stones heaved upward through the boiling deep,
And rocks enormous thundering down the steep,
In swift descent, fixed rocks encountering, roar,
Crash as from slings discharged, and shake the shore.
From that drear grot which bears thy sacred name,
Heroic Wallace, ever dear to fame,

Did I the terrors of the scene behold.

I saw the liquid snowy mountains rolled

Prone down the awful steep; I heard the din

That shook the hill, from caves that boiled within. Then wept the rocks and trees, with dropping hair; Thick mists ascending, loaded all the air,

Blotted the sun, obscured the shining day,
And washed the blazing noon at once away.
The wreck below, in wild confusion tossed,
Convolved in eddies or in whirlpools lost,
Is swept along, or dashed upon the coast.

THE BULL OF CADZOW.

WHERE these high walls round wide enclosures run, Forbid the winter, and invite the sun,

Wild strays the race of bisons, white as snow,
Hills, dales, and woods re-echo when they low.
No houses lodge them, and no milk they yield
Save to their calves, nor turn the furrowed field;
At pleasure through the spacious pastures stray,
No keeper know, nor any guide obey,

Nor round the dairy with swelled udders stand,
Or, lowing, court the milk-maid's rosy hand.
But mightiest of his race the bull is bred;
High o'er the rest he rears his armed head.

The monarch of the drove, his sullen roar
Shakes Clyde with all his rocks from shore to shore.
The murdered sounds in billowy surges come,
Deep, dismal as the death-denouncing drum,
When some dark traitor, 'mid an armed throng,
His bier the sable sledge, is dragged along.
Not prouder looked the Thunderer when he bore
The fair Europa from the Tyrian shore.
The beauteous heifers that his nod obey
Match the famed heifers of the god of day.

CROOKSTONE AND LANGSIDE.

By Crookstone Castle waves the still-green yew,
The first that met the royal Mary's view
When, bright in charms, the youthful princess led
The graceful Darnley to her throne and bed.
Embossed in silver now, its branches green
Transcend the myrtle of the Paphian queen.

But dark Langside, from Crookstone viewed afar,
Still seems to range in pomp the rebel war.
Here, when the moon rides dimly through the sky,
The peasant sees broad, dancing standards fly;
And one bright female form, with sword and crown,
Still grieves to view her banners beaten down.

SIR GILBERT ELLIOT.

1722-1777.

The third baronet of Minto, to whose suggestion the older version of "The Flowers o' the Forest" is owed, was himself author of at least two songs-the one here given, which was very popular among the upper classes in Edinburgh about the middle of last century; and another on Colonel Gardiner, who fell at Prestonpans, which is one of the few ditties of that time on the Hanoverian side. Sir Gilbert was educated for the Scottish Bar, and held several official appointments. He died at Marseilles. His son, after acting as Governor-General of India, became the first Earl of Minto.

MY SHEEP I NEGLECTED.

My sheep I neglected, I lost my sheep-hook,
And all the gay haunts of my youth I forsook ;
No more for Amynta fresh garlands I wove,
For ambition, I said, would soon cure me of love.

Oh, why had my youth with ambition to do?
Why left I Amynta? why broke I my vow?
Oh, give me my sheep, and my sheep-hook restore,
And I'll wander from love and Amynta no more.

« ÀÌÀü°è¼Ó »