He was the first that bent the knee
When the STANDARD waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,

The foremost still he trod,
Until on bleak Culloden's heath,

He gave his soul to God,

Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!

Oh, never shall we know again
A heart so stout and true-
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:

The fair White Rose has faded

From the garden where it grew,

And no fond tears, save those of heaven,

The glorious bed bedew

Of the last old Scottish cavalier

All of the olden time!

William Edmondstoune Aytoun [1813-1865]

THE BALLAD OF KEITH OF RAVELSTON

From "A Nuptial Eve "

THE murmur of the mourning ghost

That keeps the shadowy kine,

"O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!"

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The merry path that leads
Down the golden morning hill,

And through the silver meads;

Ravelston, Ravelston,

The stile beneath the tree,

The maid that kept her mother's kine,

The song that sang she!

The Ballad of Keith of Ravelston 2647

She sang her song, she kept her kine,
She sat beneath the thorn,

When Andrew Keith of Ravelston

Rode through the Monday morn.

His henchmen sing, his hawk-bells ring,
His belted jewels shine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Year after year, where Andrew came,
Comes evening down the glade,
And still there sits a moonshine ghost
Where sat the sunshine maid.

Her misty hair is faint and fair,
She keeps the shadowy kine;
O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

I lay my hand upon the stile,

The stile is lone and cold,
The burnie that goes babbling by
Says naught that can be told.

Yet, stranger! here, from year to year,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Step out three steps, where Andrew stood

Why blanch thy cheeks for fear?

The ancient stile is not alone,

"Tis not the burn I hear!

She makes her immemorial moan,

She keeps her shadowy kine;

O Keith of Ravelston,

The sorrows of thy line!

Sydney Dobell [1824-1874]

THE MISTLETOE BOUGH

THE mistletoe hung in the castle hall,

The holly branch shone on the old oak wall;
And the baron's retainers were blithe and gay,
And keeping their Christmas holiday.
The baron beheld with a father's pride
His beautiful child, young Lovell's bride;
While she with her bright eyes seemed to be
The star of the goodly company.

"I'm weary of dancing now," she cried;
"Here tarry a moment,-I'll hide, I'll hide!
And, Lovell, be sure thou'rt first to trace
The clew to my secret lurking-place,"
Away she ran, and her friends began

Each tower to search, and each nook to scan;

And young Lovell cried, "O, where dost thou hide?
I'm lonesome without thee, my own dear bride."

They sought her that night, and they sought her next day, And they sought her in vain while a week passed away;

In the highest, the lowest, the loneliest spot,

Young Lovell sought wildly, but found her not.

And years flew by, and their grief at last
Was told as a sorrowful tale long past;
And when Lovell appeared, the children cried,
"See! the old man weeps for his fairy bride."

At length an oak chest, that had long lain hid,
Was found in the castle,--they raised the lid,
And a skeleton form lay moldering there
In the bridal wreath of that lady fair!

O, sad was her fate!-in sportive jest
She hid from her lord in the old oak chest.
It closed with a spring!--and, dreadful doom,
The bride lay clasped in her living tomb!

Thomas Haynes Bayly [1797-1839]

Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac,

When the dawn was dim and gray;

The prayers of his holy office

He faithfully 'gan say.

Low kneeled the Abbot Cormac,

When the dawn was waxing red,

And for his sins' forgiveness
A solemn prayer he said.

Low kneeled that holy Abbot

When the dawn was waxing clear; And he prayed with loving-kindness For his convent brethren dear.

Low kneeled that blessed Abbot,
When the dawn was waxing bright;
He prayed a great prayer for Ireland,
He prayed with all his might.

Low kneeled that good old father,
While the sun began to dart;
He prayed a prayer for all mankind,
He prayed it from his heart.

II

The Abbot of Inisfalen

Arose upon his feet;

He heard a small bird singing,
And, oh, but it sung sweet!

He heard a white bird singing well
Within a holly-tree;
A song so sweet and happy

Never before heard he.

It sung upon a hazel,

It sung upon a thorn;

He had never heard such music

Since the hour that he was born.

It sung upon a sycamore,
It sung upon a briar;

To follow the song and hearken
This Abbot could never tire.

Till at last he well bethought him

He might no longer stay;

So he blessed the little white singing-bird,

And gladly went his way.

III

But when he came to his Abbey walls,

He found a wondrous change;

He saw no friendly faces there,
For every face was strange.

The stranger spoke unto him;

And he heard from all and each
The foreign tone of the Sassenach,
Not wholesome Irish speech.

Then the oldest monk came forward,
In Irish tongue spake he:

"Thou wearest the holy Augustine's dress,

And who hath given it thee?"