And I might see the youth intent, Guard every pass with crossbow bent ; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; And foresters in green-wood trim, Lead in the leash the gazehounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay, From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain ; Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the harquebuss below ; While all the rocking hills reply, To hoof clang, hound, and hunter's cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely." Nor dull, between each merry chase, Pass'd by the intermitted space ; For we had fair resource in store, In Classic, and in Gothic lore: We mark'd each memorable scene, And held poetic talk between ; Nor hill, nor brook, we paced along, But had its legend, or its song. All silent now for now are still Thy bowers, untenanted Bowhill ! No longer, from thy mountains dun, The yeoman hears the well-known gun, And, while his honest heart glows warm, At thought of his paternal farm, Round to his mates a brimmer fills, And drinks " The Chieftain of the Hills !" No fairy forms, in Yarrow's bowers, Trip o'er the walks, or tend the flowers, Fair as the elves whom Janet saw, By moonlight, dance on Carterhaugh ; No youthful Baron's left to grace The Forest-Sheriff's lonely chase, And ape, in manly step and tone, The majesty of Oberon : And she is gone, whose lovely face Is but her least and lowest grace ; Though if to Sylphid Queen 'twere given, To show our earth the charms of heaven, She could not glide along the air, With form more light, or face more fair. From Yair, which hills so closely bind, Scarce can the Tweed his passage find, Though much he fret, and chafe, and toil, Till all his eddying currents boil, Her long-descended lord is gone, And left us by the stream alone. And much I miss those sportive boys, Companions of my mountain joys, Just at the age 'twixt boy and youth, When thought is speech, and speech is truth. Close to my side, with what delight They press 'd to hear of Wallace wight, When, pointing to his airy mound, I call'd his ramparts holy ground! Kindled their brows to hear me speak ; And I have smiled, to feel my cheek, Despite the difference of our years, Return again the glow of theirs. Ah, happy boys I such feelings pure, They will not, cannot, long endure ;

The rapt One of the god-like forehead, 
The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth ; 

And Lamb, the frolic and the gentle, 
Has vanished from his lonely hearth. 

Like clouds that rake the mountain summits, 
Or waves that own no curbing hand, 

How fast has brother followed brother 
From sunshine to the sunless land ! 

Yet I, whose lids from infant slumber 
Were earlier raised, remain to hear 

A timid voice, that asks in whispers, 
" Who next will droop and disappear ? " 

Our haughty lifejis crowned with darkness, 
Like London, with its own black wreath, 

On which with thee, O ! Crabbe, forth-looking 
I gazed from Hampstead's breezy heath. 

As if but yesterday departed, 
Thou too art gone before ; but why 

O'er ripe fruit, seasonably gathered 
Should frail survivors heave a sigh. 

Mourn rather for that holy Spirit. 

Sweet as the spring, as ocean deep; 
For Her who, ere her summer faded, 

Has sunk into a breathless sleep. 

No more of old romantic sorrows. 

For slaughtered youth or love-lorn maid ! 
With sharper grief is Yarrow smitten, 

And Ettrick mourns with her their Poet dead. 



DESCRIPTION OF MOUNT BENGER. 

Oft from yon height I loved to mark, 

Soon as the morning roused the lark, 

And woodlands raised their raptured hymn, 

That land of glory spreading dim ; 

While slowly up the awakening dale 

The mists withdrew their fleecy veil, 

And tower, and wood, and winding stream, 



BY A BUSH. 113 

Were brightening in the golden beam. 
Yet where the westward shadows fell, 
My eye with fonder gaze would dwell, 
Though wild the view, and brown and bare ; 
Nor castled halls, nor hamlets fair, 
Nor range of sheltering woods, were there, 
Nor river's sweeping pride between, 
To give expression to the scene. 
There stood a simple home, where swells 
The meady sward to moory fells, 
A rural dwelling thatched and warm, 
Such as might suit the upland farm. 
A honeysuckle clasped the sash, 
Half shaded by the giant ash ; 
And there the wall-spread apple-tree 
Gave its white blossoms to the bee, 
Beside yon sheltering clump of ash, 
Which screens below the boiling pool 
With pebbled bottom clear and cool, 
Where often, from the shelving brim, 
We launched on sedgy sheaf to swim. 



BY A BUSH. 

By a bush on yonder brae 

Where the airy Benger rises, 
Sandy tuned his artless lay ; 
Thus he sung the lee-lang day : 



H4 JAMES HOGG. 

" Thou shalt ever be my theme, 

Yarrow, winding down the hollow, 
With thy bonny sister stream 

Sweeping through the broom so yellow. 
On these banks thy waters lave, 
Oft the warrior found a grave. 



" Oft on thee the silent wain 

Saw the Douglas' banners streaming 
Oft on thee the hunter train 
Sought the shelter'd deer in vain ; 
Oft, in thy green dells and bowers 

Swains have seen the fairies riding ; 
Oft the snell and sleety showers 
Found in thee the warrior hiding. 
Many a wild and bloody scene 
On thy bonnie banks have been. 



" Now the days of discord gane, 

Henry's kindness keeps us cheery ; 
While his heart shall warm remain, 
Dule will beg a hauld in vain. 
Bloodless now in many hues, 

Flow'rets bloom, our hills adorning ; 
There my Jenny milks her ewes, 
Fresh an' ruddy as the morning, 
Mary Scott could ne'er outvie 
Jenny's hue an' glancing eye. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 115 

" Wind, my Yarrow, down the howe, 

Forming bows o' dazzling siller ; 
Meet thy titty yont the knowe ; 
Wi' my love I'll join like you. 
Flow my Ettrick, it was thee, 

Into life wha first did drap me. 
Thee I've sung, an' when I dee 
Thou wilt lend a sod to hap me : 
Passing swains shall say, and weep, 
Here our Shepherd lies asleep." 



WILL AND DA VIE 



A SCOTTISH PASTORAL. 



Where Yarrow pours her silver billow 
Through bowers of birch, and brakes of willow ; 
Where loud the grouse crows on the fell, 
And sweet the thrush sings in the dell ; 
Where milk-white flocks unnumbered lie, 
And mirth laughs keen in every eye ; 
And plenty smiles from day to day, 
Beneath Buccleuch's indulgent sway ; 
Two friendly shepherds, blithe and young. 
Oft on the greensward sat and sung, 
Or scoured the lofty fells together, 
And brushed the red flower from the heather. 

12 



u6 JAMES HOGG. 

One morn they tuned, by dawn of day, 
On Bowerhope Law the rural lay ; 
For such a scene that lay was meet 
As wildly gay, as simply sweet; 
The great may even lend an ear 
Wild Yarrow's mountain strains to hear. 

DAVIE. 

Ah, Will, these purple heather blooms, 
That round us shed their light perfumes, 
These sparkling gems of crystal dew, 
That morning sky so mild and blue, 
Have raised my heart to such a height, 
I breathe so pure, I feel so light, 
'Gainst all the reasons you can bring 
I must and will my matin sing. 
Cheer up your heart, for once be gay ; 
Screw on your flute and join the lay. 

WILL. 

Ah, Shepherd, cease ; your idle strain 
Adds sharpness to my bosom's pain. 
How can ye pour that strain so airy, 
That trifling, idle, wild vagary ; 
Nor sadly once reflect with me 
On what has been, and what may be ? 

" As little heeds the lark on high, 
The watchful falcon hovering nigh, 
But flickering his kind mate above, 
He trills his matin song of love. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 117 

Ah, reckless bird, that lively strain 
Thy mate shall never hear again ! 
The spoiler tears thy panting breast, 
And all forsaken is thy nest." 

Cease, Shepherd, cease the case is yours ; 
The sky of Britain threatening lowers ! 
Else, let your strain be soft and slow, 
And every fall a note of woe. 



DAVIE. 

How can I strike one plaintive sound 
While nature smiles so sweet around ? 
See how our lambs, in many a skein, 
Are dancing on the daisied green ; 
Their pliant limbs they keenly brace, 
Strained in the unambitious race ; 
Till gruff old wedders, blithe to see 
The young things skip so merrily, 
With motley antics join the throng, 
And bob and caper them among. 

The plover whistles in the glen, 
The tewit tilts above the fen ; 
Even the hoarse curlew strains her throat, 
And yelps her loudest, liveliest note : 
The rural joy then must I shun, 
So ripened by the rising sun ? 



Ii8 JAMES HOGG. 

No while my bosom beats so high, 
Responsive to a lovely eye 
That pierced it with a gilded arrow, 
I'll sing of love, of joy, and Yarrow. 

I'll sing that rural scene before me ; 
That shady world of placid glory. 
See how the afer vibrates o'er 
The lofty front of brown Clockmore ; 
Beyond Carlevon's rocky crest 
The drowsy moon sinks pale to rest ; 
An angel shade of silken green 
O'erveils the cliffs of wild Loch Skene ; 
While Border Cheviot, blue and high, 
Melts like a shadow on the sky. 

From proud Mount Benger's top, the sun 
His airy course has scarce begun ; 
His orient cheek is resting still 
Upon the grey cairn on the hill. 
The scarlet curtain of the sky, 
A wreathed and waving canopy, 
Sweels like the dew on mountain flower 
Or frost-work on the southland shower. 

The Yarrow, like a baldrick thrown 
Loose on the vale, lies bent and lone ; 
A silver snake of every dye 
That gilds the mountain, tincts the sky ; 
And slowly o'er her verdant vales 
A cobweb veil of vapour sails. 



WILL AND DA VIE. 119 

Saint Mary holds her mirror sheen, 
To moorland gray and mountain green ; 
To speckled schell-fowl hovering nigh, 
To milky swan and morning sky : 
Their phantom cliffs hang trembling low, 
And hoary thorns inverted grow. 

Her purple bosom sleeps as still 
As sunbeam on the silent hill, 
No curling breeze across it strays, 
No sportful eddy o'er it plays, 
Save where the wild duck wanders slow, 
Or dark trout spreads his waxing O. 

Look to the east 'tis shadow all, 
Crowned by yon broad and dazzling ball. 
Turn westward mountain, glen, and wold, 
Are all one blaze of burning gold ! 

Ah, God of nature ! such a scene, 
So grand, so lovely, so serene, 
Bears the free soul on rapture's wing, 
Before thy diamond throne to sing ; 
Above yon sky's celestial blue, 
To gaze on glories ever new ; 
And list the strains of angel song 
From angel harps that pour along, 
By fragrant breezes softly driven 
O'er suns that sand the floors of heaven. 



JAMES HOGG. 

The enraptured youth now ceased to sing ; 
But still on ether's waving wing, 
From echo's cave was borne along 
Thy dying measures of the song : 
With eye entranced, and head declined, 
They listened to the waving wind 
Hung on the cliff-born fairly lay, 
Till the last quaver died away. 



THE LASSIE OF YARROW. 

" What makes my heart beat high, 
What makes me heave the sigh, 
When yon green den I spy, 

Lonely and narrow ? 
Sure on your bracken lea, 
Under the hawthorn tree, 
Thou hast bewitched me, 

Lassie of Yarrow !" 



" Yon bracken den so lone, 
Rueful I ponder on ; 
Lad, though my vow ye won, 

'Twas to deceive thee. 
Sore, sore I rue the day 
When in your arms I lay, 
And swore by the hawthorn gray, 

Never to leave thee." 



WILL AND DAVIE. 

" Mary, thy will is free ; 
All my fond vows to thee 
Were but in jest and glee ; 

Could'st thou believe me ? 
I have another love 
Kind as the woodland dove ; 
False to that maid to prove, 

Oh, it would grieve me !" 

Mary's full eye so blue, 
Mild as the evening dew, 
Quick from his glance withdrew, 

Soft was her sighing ; 
Keen he the jest renewed, 
Hard for his freedom sued 
When her sweet face he viewed, 

Mary was crying. 

" Cheer thee," the lover said, 
" Now thy sharp scorn repaid, 
Never shall other maid 

Call me her marrow. 
Far sweeter than sun or sea, 
Or aught in this world I see, 
Is thy love-smile to me, 

Lassie of Yarrow!" 



122 JAMES HOGG. 



ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 

O lone St. Mary of the waves, 
In ruin lies thine ancient aisle, 

While o'er thy green and lowly graves, 
The moorcocks bay, and plovers wail : 
But mountain spirits on the gale, 

Oft o'er thee sound the requiem dread ; 
And warrior shades, and spectres pale, 

Still linger by the quiet dead. 

Yes, many a chief of ancient days 

Sleeps in thy cold and hallow'd soil ; 
Hearts that would thread the forest maze, 

Alike for spousal or for spoil ; 

That wist not, ween'd not, to recoil 
Before the might of mortal foe, 

But thirsted for the Border broil, 
The shout, the clang, the overthrow. 

Here lie those who, o'er flood and field, 
Were hunted as the osprey's brood, 

Who braved the power of man, and seal'd 
Their testimonies with their blood : 
But long as waves that wilder'd flood, 

Their sacred memory shall be dear, 
And all the virtuous and the good 

O'er their low graves shall drop the tear. 



ST. MARY OF THE LOWES. 123 

Here sleeps the last of all the race 

Of these old heroes of the hill, 
Stern as the storm in heart and face : 

Gainsaid in faith or principle. 

Then would the fire of heaven fill 
The orbit of his faded eye ; 

Yet all within was kindness still, 
Benevolence and simplicity. 

GRIEVE, thou shall hold a sacred cell 

In hearts with sin and sorrow toss'd ; 
While thousands, with their funeral knell, 

Roll down the tide of darkness, lost ; 

For thou wert Truth's and Honour's boast, 
Firm champion of Religion's sway ! 

Who knew thee best revered thee most, 
Thou emblem of a former day ! 

Here lie old Border bowmen good ; 

Ranger and stalker sleep together, 
Who for the red-deer's stately brood 

Watch'd, in despite of want and weather, 

Beneath the hoary hills of heather ; 
Even Scotts, and Kerrs, and Pringles, blended 

In peaceful slumbers, rest together, 
Whose fathers there to death contended. 

Here lie the peaceful, simple race, 

The first old tenants of the wild, 
Who stored the mountains of the chase 

With flocks and herds whose manners mild 



124 JAMES HOGG. 

Changed the baronial castles, piled 
In every glen, into the cot, 

And the rude mountaineer beguiled, 
Indignant, to his peaceful lot. 

Here rural beauty low reposes ; 

The blushing cheek, and beaming eye, 
The dimpling smile, the lip of roses, 

Attracters of the burning sigh, 

And love's delicious pangs, that lie 
Enswathed in pleasure's mellow mine : 

Maid, lover, parent, low and high, 
Are mingled in thy lonely shrine. 

And here lies one here I must turn 
From all the noble and sublime, 

And, o'er thy new but sacred urn, 

Shed the heath flower and mountain-thyme, 
And floods of sorrow, while I chime 

Above thy dust one requiem. 

Love was thine error, not thy crime, 

Thou mildest, sweetest, mortal gem ! 

For ever hallow'd be thy bed, 

Beneath the dark and hoary steep ; 

Thy breast may flowerets overspread, 
And angels of the morning weep 
In sighs of heaven above thy sleep, 

And tear-drops of embalming dew ; 
Thy vesper hymn be from the deep, 

Thy matin from the ether blue !