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"There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth,
If there's lords in the Lowlands, there's chiefs in the North,
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three
Will cry 'Hoigh!' for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.

"There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide,
There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free
At a toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.
Come fill up my cup, &c.

"Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,—
Ere I own an usurper I'll crouch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me."
Come fill up my cup, &c.

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lea 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!

There are abundant indications that the "Bonnets of Bonny Dundee" was a favorite with its illustrious writer. The following song, from "The Pirate," is interesting, not merely from its own merit, but from an anecdote related by Mr. Lock hart. When on a tour in the North of England, it was sung to Sir Walter as set by Mrs. Robert Arkwright. "Beautiful words," observed he; "Byron's of course." He was much shocked when undeceived.

The stanzas themselves are deeply touching. They form part of a serenade, sung by Cleveland under Minna's window, when compelled to return to his ship.

Farewell! farewell! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you;
Its next must join the seaward cheer,

And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form,

Beneath your frown's controlling check,
Must give the word above the storm

To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise,
The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase,
Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear,

Honor or own, a long adieu!
To all that life has soft and dear,

Farewell! save memory of you!

These lines have much of the flow peculiar to Lord Byron, and were therefore perhaps selected as adapted to her purpose by their accomplished composer. In general, musical people say that Sir Walter Scott's songs are ill suited to music, difficult to set, difficult to sing. One cannot help suspecting that the fault rests with the music, that cannot blend itself with such poetry. Where in our language shall we find more delicious melody than in "County Guy?" The rhythm of the verse rivals the fancy of the imagery and the tenderness of the thought.

Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,

The sun has left the lea;
The orange flower perfumes the bower,

The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who trilled all day,

Sits hushed, his partner nigh;
Bee, bird, and bower confess the hour:—

But where is County Guy 1

The village maid steals through the shade

Her shepherd's suit to hear;
To beauty shy by lattice high,

Sings high-born cavalier.
The star of love, all stars above,

Now reigns o'er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know:—

But where is County Guy 1

This little poem can hardly be surpassed; but here are two others, one by the late, and one by the present Laureate, worthy to be printed on the same page.


She dwelt among the untrodden ways,
Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were note to praise,
And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half hidden from the eye;
Fair as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and oh,

The difference to me!

Mr. Tennyson's delicious song, published only in the later editions of "The Princess," is less generally known.

The splendor falls on castle walls

And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes And the wild cataract leaps in glory:
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Oh, hark! oh, hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going!
Oh! sweet and far, from cliff and scar The horns of Elf-land faintly blowing.
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle, answer echoes, dying, dying, dying.

0 love, they die on yon rich sky, They faint on hill, on field, on river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

It is like a descent from Fairyland to the wild stormy ocean, to turn from the dying falls of Mr. Tennyson's stanzas to the homely sea-song of Allan Cunningham. And yet that sea-song has high merit; it resembles the bold, stalwart form, the free and generous spirit of the author, one of the noblest specimens of the Scottish peasant, elevated into a superior rank, as much by conduct and character, as by talent and industry.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,

And fills the white and swelling 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 lea.

"Oh for a soft and gentle wind I"

I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze

And white waves heaving high!
And white waves heaving high, my boys,

The good ship light and free;
The world of waters is our home,

And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horned moon,

And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark! the music mariners

The wind is piping loud!
The wind is piping loud, my boys,

The lightning flashing free;
While the hollow oak our palace is,

Our heritage the sea!

One of the most charming of English song-writers, happily still spared to us, is he who, under the name of Barry Cornwall, has given so many fine lyrics to our language. What can be more spirited than this Bacchanalian song?

Sing!—who sings

To her who weareth a hundred rings1
Ah, who is this lady fine 1
The Vine, boys, the Vine!
The mother of mighty wine.
A roamer is she
O'er wall and tree,
And sometimes very good company.

Drink!—who drinks To her who blusheth and never thinks 1
Ah, who is this maid of mine 1
The Grape, boys, the Grape!
Oh, never let her escape
Until she be turned to wine.
For better is she
Than Vine can be,
And very, very good company.

Dream !—who dreams

Of the God that governs a thousand streams %
Ah, who is this spirit fine?
'Tis Wine, boys, 'tis Wine!
God Bacchus, a friend of mine.
Oh, better is he
Than grape or tree,
And the best of all good company.

I can not resist the temptation of adding to the stanzas of the living poet one from him who can never die.


Come, thou monarch of the vine,
Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne,
In thy vats our cares are drowned;
With thy grapes our hairs be crowned;
Cup us till the world go round;
Cup us till the world go round.

Of Thomas Hood's four great lyrical poems, the greatest is "The Bridge of Sighs;" it is one gush of tenderness and charity.

One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate
Gone to her death!Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young and so fair!

Look at her garments,
Clinging like cerements;
While the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving not lothing.

Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her:
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.

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