The miller he's a worldly man,

And maun have double fee;

So draw the sluice of the churl's dam,
And let the stream come free.
Shout, fairies, shout! see, gushing out,
The meal comes like a river;

The top of the grain on hill and plain
Is ours, and shall be ever.

One elf goes chasing the wild bat's wing,
And one the white owl's horn,

One hunts the fox for the white o' his tail,
And we winna have him till morn;
One idle fay, with the glow-worm's ray,
Runs glimmering 'mang the mosses,
Another goes tramp wi' the will-o'-wisp's lamp,
To light a lad to the lasses.

O haste, my brown elf, bring me corn

From bonnie Blackwood plains;

Go, gentle fairy, bring me grain
From green Dalgonar mains;
But, pride of a' at Closeburn ha',

Fair is the corn and fatter;
Taste, fairies, taste, a gallanter grist
Has never been wet with water.

Hilloah! my hopper is heaped high;
Hark! to the well-hung wheels,
They sing for joy ;-the dusty roof,
It clatters and it reels.

Haste, elves, and turn yon mountain burn

Bring streams that shine like siller; The dam is down, the moon sinks soon, And I maun grind my meller.

Ha! bravely done, my wanton elves,
That is a foaming stream;

See how the dust from the mill-ee flies,
And chokes the cold moon-beam.-
Haste, fairies fleet come baptized feet,
Come sack and sweep up clean,

And meet me soon, ere sinks the moon
In thy green vale, Dalveen.

MARMION.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Where shall the lover rest,

Whom the fates sever,

From his true maiden's breast

Parted for ever?

Where, through groves deep and high,

Sounds the far billow,

Where early violets die,

Under the willow.

There, through the summer day, Cool streams are laving,

There, while the tempests sway,

Scarce are boughs waving;

There thy rest shalt thou take,

Parted for ever,

Never again to wake,

Never, O never.

Where shall the traitor rest,

He the deceiver,

Who could win maiden's breast, Ruin, and leave her ?

In the lost battle,

Borne down by the flying,

Where mingles war's rattle

With groans of the dying.

Her wing shall the eagle flap
O'er the false hearted;

His warm blood the wolf shall lap,

Ere life be parted; Shame and dishonour sit

By his grave ever;

Blessing shall hallow it

Never, O never.

SONG OF RICHARD FAULDER.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

It's merry, it's merry, among the moonlight,
When the pipe and the cittern are sounding,
To rein, like a war-steed, my shallop, and go
O'er the bright waters merrily bounding.
It's merry, it's merry, when fair Allanbay
With its bridal candles is glancing,

To spread the white sails of my vessel, and go
Among the wild sea-waters dancing.

And it's blithesomer still, when the storm is come on, And the Solway's wild waves are ascending

In huge and dark curls—and the shaven masts groan, And the canvas to ribbons is rending;

When the dark heaven stoops down unto the dark deep, And the thunder speaks 'mid the commotion :— Awaken and see, ye who slumber and sleep,

The might of the Lord on the ocean!

This frail bark, so late growing green in the wood
Where the roebuck is joyously ranging,
Now doomed for to roam o'er the wild fishy flood,
When the wind to all quarters is changing—

Is as safe to thy feet as the proud palace floor,
And as firm as green Skiddaw below thee;
For God has come down to the ocean's dread deeps,
His might and his mercy to show thee.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

O, young Lochinvar has come out of the west,
Through all the wide border his steed was the best ;
And, save his good broad sword, he weapons
had none,
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone.
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war,
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.

He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone,
He cross'd the Eske river where ford there was none;
But, ere he alighted at Netherby gate,

The bride had consented, the gallant came late :
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war,
Was to wed the fair Helen of brave Lochinvar.

So boldly he enter'd the Netherby Hall,

Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers and all;
Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword,
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,
"O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,
Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar?'