And the bride-maidens whispered, ""T were better by far,

To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar."

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,

So light to the saddle before her he sprung.

"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 Graemes of the Netherby clan ;

Forsters, 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 ?

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.

Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons !

Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky,

The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,

Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter;

Leave the corpse uninterred,

The bride at the altar;

Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges : Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when

Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page, and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come ;
See how they gather !
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset !

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

FLODDEN-FIELD.

1513.

From "Marmion."

By this, though deep the evening fell,
Still rose the battle's deadly swell,
For still the Scots around their king,
Unbroken, fought in desperate ring.
Where's now their victor vaward wing,
Where Huntly, and where Home?
Oh for a blast of that dread horn,
On Fontarabian echoes borne,

That to King Charles did come,
When Rowland brave, and Olivier,

And every paladin and peer,

On Roncesvalles died!

Such blast might warn them, not in vain

To quit the plunder of the slain,

And turn the doubtful day again,

While yet on Flodden side,

Afar, the royal standard flies,

And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies,

Our Caledonian pride!

While spoil and havoc mark their way,
Near Sybil's cross the plunderers stray.

More desperate grew the strife of death.
The English shafts in volleys hailed,
In headlong charge their horse assailed;
Front, flank, and rear the squadrons sweep
To break the Scottish circle deep,

That fought around their king.

But yet, though thick the shafts as snow,
Though charging knights like whirlwinds go,
Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow,
Unbroken was the ring;

The stubborn spear-men still made good
Their dark impenetrable wood,

Each stepping where his comrade stood,

The instant that he fell.

No thought was there of dastard flight ;
Linked in the serried phalanx tight,

Groom fought like noble, squire like knight,
As fearlessly and well;

Till utter darkness closed her wing
O'er their thin host and wounded king.
Then skilful Surrey's sage commands
Led back from strife his shattered bands;
And from the charge they drew,