Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;

When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,

The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade.
Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;

Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
Echo his praise again,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!'

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,
And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied,
Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side.
Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our aid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with wo;
Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear again,

Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the highlands!
Stretch to your oars for the evergreen pine!
that the rose-bud that graces yon islands
Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine!
O that some seedling gem,

Worthy such noble stem,

Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then

Ring from the deepmost glen,

Boderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT

SEA-SONG.

A WET sheet and a flowing sea,

A wind that follows fast

And fills the white and rustling sail
And bends the gallant mast;

And bends the gallant mast, my boys,

While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry ;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my lads.
The good ship tight and free,
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon hornèd moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
But hark the music, mariners!
The wind is piping loud;

The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashes free,

While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.1

1 ALLAN CUNNINGHAM, born in Scotland in 1785, was the son of a gardener. In 1810 he removed to London, where he wrote for the press, and in 1814 obtained the position of clerk to Sir Francis Chantrey, the celebrated sculptor, with whom he remained until 1841 He wrote romances, some poems of considerable length, and many beautiful and spirited songs. He died in 1842.

SONG.

O, BRIGNAL banks are wild and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.
And as I rode by Dalton-hall,
Beneath the turrets high,

A maiden on the castle wall
Was singing merrily,

“O, Brignal banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen."

"If, maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town,

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 greenwood shalt thou speed.
As blithe as queen of May."

Yet sung she, " Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are green;
I'd rather rove with Edmund there,
Than reign our English queen.

"I read you, by your bugle horn,
And by your palfrey good,

I read you for a ranger sworn,

To keep the king's greenwood."

"A ranger, lady, winds his horn, of light;

And 't is at peep

His blast is heard at merry morn,
And mine at dead of night."

Yet sung she, "Brignal banks are fair,
And Greta woods are gay,

I would I were with Edmund there,
To reign his queen of May !

"With burnished brand and musquetoon, So gallantly you come,

I read you for a bold dragoon,

That lists the tuck of drum."
"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.

"And O! though Brignal banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay,

Yet mickle must the maiden dare,
Would reign my queen of May!

"Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die;

The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I!

And when I'm with my comrades met,
Beneath the greenwood bough,

What once we were we all forget,
Nor think what we are now.

"Yet Brignal banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green,

And you may gather garlands there,
Would grace a summer queen.".

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

SONG.

"A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,
A weary lot is thine!

To pull the thorn, thy brow to braid,
And press the rue for wine!
A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,
A feather of the blue,

A doublet of the Lincoln green,

No more of me you knew,

My love!

No more of me you knew.

"The morn is merry June, I trow,
The rose is budding fain,

But she shall bloom in winter snow,
Ere we two meet again."

He turned his charger as he spake,
Upon the river shore,

his bridle reins a shake, Said, "Adieu for evermore,

My love!

And adieu for evermore."

SIR WALTER SCOTT.