truth it did awaken,
In silver ducks I was mistaken;
It was the sunbeam’s merry dancing,
That on the water I saw glancing.
Rejoicing that from bonds of ice
They were free these pearls of price;
Though banks were bound with fringe of snow,
Which gave more lustre to the glow.
So ’tis no wonder that we sing
About the glories of the spring;
Each day fresh beauties will be seen,
When fields are cover’d o’er with green.
Adieu to Winter brings no grief,
For we do long for bud and leaf;
Which are brought out by sunny showers,
And covers landscape with the flowers.
The sun is glorious orb of day,
Refulgent is each sparkling ray;
The moon she is the Queen of Night,
Enthroned among the stars so bright.
A Ghost Story
There was a bonnie Scottish lass,
She had two lovers green as grass;
This fair maiden’s name was Mary,
And she was playful as a fairy.
Lovers haunted her night and day,
She could not make thera stay away;
Two then sought favor in her eyes,
But both alike she did despise.
She promised each one to reward,
If ho would go to the church yard,
Which was close by, the first dark night
So that the other he would fright.
No other road it could be found
To Mary’s, save by burial ground;
She knew that each was coward loon,
When nights were dark without a moon.
When each for to secure his bride,
He in the grave yard then did hide,
Each thinking ’twas a glorious lark
To frighten other in the dark.
But both wore cowards—far from brave,
Each trembled alongside of grave
Expecting to see ghost arise,
Strange sights they float before their eyes.
Both had around them sheets so white
Each wished the other for to fright,
While rival on the road did pass,
They both quick rose, but sad, alas.
Each saw a ghost; the one did faint,
The other’s horror who can paint;
He there severelyy bruised his bones,
Madly rushing o’er grave stones.
And he did get a fearful fall,
Jumping o’er the churchyard wall;
They both fell sick and lost their pride,
And neither went to claim his bride.
When they arose from their sick bed,
They heard the news that Mary wed
A brave and handsome farmer’s son,
Who never from a ghost had run.
Sir Walter Scott
After long and mature reflection, I have no hesitation in saying that I think Sir Walter Scott is entitled to the second place in British Literature, immediately next to Shakespeare. After poring over the ballads and tales of James Mogg, which from their nature resemble Scott’s, I made the mistake of attributing this couplet by Scott to James Hogg:
MacGregor’s Gathering
While there’s leaves on the forest or foam on the river,
MacGregor despite them, shall flourish forever.
Big Stag
Each Highland forester doth brag
That he hath seen a mighty stag,
But sportsmen they do think it strange,
He never comes within their range.
But the keeper, Donald McKay,
Says he saw it just the other day,
And though gents can’t it, dihcover,
It is there the same, whatever.
The last I saw of wondrous stag,
He was grazing near yon crag,
In company with hia dear doe,
They seemed to love each other so.
And playful sporting on the lawn,
’Long side of them their bonnie fawn;
I loved to see the creatures play,
From them I scarce could turn away.
My heart grew tender, I did lag
So long I could not shoot the stag,
And forest still he yet adorns,
With magnificent head of horns.
But I do fear some fatal day.
That some pot-hunter will him slay,
Who would be heedless of the woe
And sorrows of the fawn and doe.
Eagle and Stag
In lonely distant Highland glen,
Far away from abode of men,
A herd of deer they quietly graze,
No foe appears where e’er they gaze.
But there was one with flashing eyes
Was glaring on them from the skies,
Dooming the one whose antlered horns,
The monarch of the glen adorns.
The king of birds while high in air,
Resolves that he will boldly dare
To attack this fine, noble beast.
And from its heart’s blood have a feast.
He circles downwards in his flight,
Floats calm, takes aim, then with his might,
Like bullet strikes the mighty deer,
Whose frame doth tremble all with fear.
He doth not fear without a cause,
For eagle’s buried deep his claws
In the neck of this noble buck,
And with sharp beak its blood doth suck.
For fierce bird with powerful swing,
Lashes the deer with each big wing;
And with strong eflibrts too it trys
For to pick out Voth of its eyes.
But now the deer doth know its foe,
And with its antlers strikes it blow;
Makes it sprawl among the heather,
And doth ruffle up each feather.
But bird quick takes aerial flight,
And descends with power and might
Further back on the deer’s haunches,
Out of reach of antler branches.
But deer it was both wise and bold,
He down the hill with eagle rolled;
But bird he closer to it clung,
And from deer’s side the blood it wrung.
The stag, though suffering cruel harm,
Yet not o’erwhelm’d with alarm;
He threw himself heels over head,
Until at last the eagle fled.
And high again in air he flew,
Once more the contest to renew,
But deer made his escape full good
In the shade of a neighboring wood.
And bird descending for its prey,
Finds it hath swiftly fled away;
Eagle then like a hungry sinner
Had to seek elsewhere for its dinner.
And now it homeward takes its flight,
Its golden plumes in a sad plight,
To a high rock where its throbbing breast
May there find rest in its own nest.
And soon around the antler’d deer,
The does do crowd his heart to cheer,
Rejoicing he was so brave
As to drive off the winged knave.
Fairy Tale
Among the hills lives John McCrae,
An honest man so all do say;
John and his wife live together
’Mong the hills and blooming heather.
On their small faim they do keep
A cow and a few goats and sheep;
They own a little Highland horse,
Which ploughs and draws the peats from moss.
For they never saw a coal fire,
And peats give heat all they require;
Peat fire makes best Highland whisky,
Which doth make a man so frisky.
John is a crofter in Skye,
May better days on him draw nigh;
Yet John he did not inherit
Any discontented spirit.
But happy with his humble lot,
His little croft and poor turf cot;
He always to the Lord gives
