The woodland walk was cool and nigh, Where birds with chiming streamlets vie To cheer Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! The savage bear Made ne'er that lovely grove his lair; The wolves molest not paths so fairBut better far had such been there

For poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! In woody wold
She met a huntsman fair and bold;
His baldric was of silk and gold,
And many a witching tale he told
To poor Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! Small cause to pine
Hadst thou for treasures of the mine;
For peace of mind, that gift divine,
And spotless innocence, were thine,
Ah, poor Louise!

Ah, poor Louise! Thy treasure's reft!
I know not if by force or theft,
Or part by violence, part by gift;
But misery is all that's left

To poor Louise.

Let poor Louise some succor have!
She will not long your bounty crave,
Or tire the gay with warning stave -
For Heaven has grace and earth a grave
For poor Louise.

From "The Fair Maid of Perth."

[1828.]

The Lay of Poor Louise.

Aн, poor Louise! the livelong day
She roams from cot to castle gay;
And still her voice and viol say,
Ah, maids, beware the woodland way,
Think on Louise.

Ah, poor Louise! The sun was high,
It smirched her cheek, it dimmed her eye,

From "The Doom of Devorgoil."

The Sun upon the Lake.

THE Sun upon the lake is low,

The wild birds hush their song,
The hills have evening's deepest glow,
Yet Leonard tarries long.

Now all whom varied toil and care
From home and love divide,
In the calm sunset may repair
Each to the loved one's side.

The noble dame, on turret high

Who waits her gallant knight,
Looks to the western beam to spy
The flash of armor bright.

The village maid, with hand on brow
The level ray to shade,
Upon the footpath watches now
For Colin's darkening plaid.

Now to their mates the wild swans row,
By day they swam apart;

And to the thicket wanders slow

The hind beside the hart.
The woodlark at his partner's side
Twitters his closing song

All meet whom day and care divide,
But Leonard tarries long.

Admire not that E Gained.
ADMIRE not that I gained the prize
From all the village crew;
How could I fail with hand or eyes
When heart and faith were true?

And when in floods of rosy wine

My comrades drowned their cares,
I thought but that thy heart was mine,
My own leapt light as theirs.

My brief delay then do not blame,
Nor deem your swain untrue;
My form but lingered at the game,
My soul was still with you.

When the Tempest.

WHEN the tempest 's at the loudest
On its gale the eagle rides ;
When the ocean rolls the proudest

Through the foam the sea-bird glidesAll the rage of wind and sea

Is subdued by constancy.

Gnawing want and sickness pining,
All the ills that men endure,

Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the

men,

Come open your gates and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!

When Friends are Met.

WHEN friends are met o'er merry cheer,
And lovely eyes are laughing near,
And in the goblet's bosom clear

The cares of day are drowned;
When puns are made and bumpers quaffed,
And wild Wit shoots his roving shaft,
And Mirth his jovial laugh has laughed,
Then is our banquet crowned,
Ah! gay,

Then is our banquet crowned.

When glees are sung and catches trolled, And bashfulness grows bright and bold, And beauty is no longer cold,

And age no longer dull;

When chimes are brief and cocks do crow
To tell us it is time to go,

Yet how to part we do not know,
Then is our feast at full,

Ah! gay,

Then is our feast at full.

Wither we Come.

HITHER we come,

Once slaves to the drum,

But no longer we list to its rattle;
Adieu to the wars,

With their slashes and scars,

The march, and the storm, and the battle.

There are some of us maimed,

And some that are lamed,

And some of old aches are complaining;
But we 'll take up the tools

Which we flung by like fools,

'Gainst Don Spaniard to go a-campaigning.

Dick Hathorn doth vow

To return to the plough,

Jack Steele to his anvil and hammer;
The weaver shall find room

At the wight-wapping loom,

And your clerk shall teach writing and grammar.

The Gray Brother.

THE Pope he was saying the high, high mass

All on Saint Peter's day,

With the power to him given by the saints in heaven

To wash men's sins away.

The Pope he was saying the blessed mass,
And the people kneeled around,
And from each man's soul his sins did pass,
As he kissed the holy ground.

And all among the crowded throng

Was still, both limb and tongue,
While through vaulted roof and aisles aloof
The holy accents rung.

At the holiest word he quivered for fear,
And faltered in the sound

And when he would the chalice rear
He dropped it to the ground.

The breath of one of evil deed
Pollutes our sacred day;

He has no portion in our creed,
No part in what I say.

A being whom no blessed word
To ghostly peace can bring,

A wretch at whose approach abhorred
Recoils each holy thing.

'Up, up, unhappy! haste, arise!
My adjuration fear!

I charge thee not to stop my voice,
Nor longer tarry here!'

Amid them all a pilgrim kneeled
In gown of sackcloth gray;
Far journeying from his native field,
He first saw Rome that day.

For forty days and nights so drear
I ween he had not spoke,

And, save with bread and water clear,
His fast he ne'er had broke.

Amid the penitential flock,

Seemed none more bent to pray; But when the Holy Father spoke He rose and went his way.

Again unto his native land

His weary course he drew,

To Lothian's fair and fertile strand, And Pentland's mountains blue.

His unblest feet his native seat

Mid Eske's fair woods regain;

Through woods more fair no stream more sweet Rolls to the eastern main.

And lords to meet the pilgrim came,
And vassals bent the knee ;
For all mid Scotland's chiefs of fame
Was none more famed than he.

And boldly for his country still
In battle he had stood,
Ay, even when on the banks of Till
Her noblest poured their blood.

Sweet are the paths, O passing sweet!
By Eske's fair streams that run,
O'er airy steep through copsewood deep,
Impervious to the sun.

There the rapt poet's step may rove,
And yield the muse the day;
There Beauty, led by timid Love,
May shun the telltale ray;

From that fair dome where suit is paid
By blast of bugle free,

To Auchendinny's hazel glade

And haunted Woodhouselee.

Who knows not Melville's beechy grove
And Roslin's rocky glen,
Dalkeith, which all the virtues love,

And classic Hawthornden?

Yet never a path from day to day The pilgrim's footsteps range, Save but the solitary way

To Burndale's ruined grange.

A woful place was that, I ween,
As sorrow could desire;

For nodding to the fall was each crumbling wall,

And the roof was scathed with fire.

It fell upon a summer's eve,

While on Carnethy's head

The last faint gleams of the sun's low beams Had streaked the gray with red,

And the convent bell did vespers tell
Newbattle's oaks among,

And mingled with the solemn knell
Our Ladye's evening song;

The heavy knell, the choir's faint swell,
Came slowly down the wind,
And on the pilgrim's ear they fell,
As his wonted path he did find.
he was,

Deep sunk in thought, I ween,
Nor ever raised his eye,
Until he came to that dreary place
Which did all in ruins lie.