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O dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour!
O noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to the fall of night!

GOOD NIGHT, GOOD NIGHT!

JOANNA BAILLIE.

The sun is sunk, the day is done,
E'en stars are setting one by one;
Nor torch nor taper longer may
Eke out the pleasures of the day;
And since, in social glee's despite,

It needs must be, Good night, good night!

The bride into her bower is sent,

And ribald rhyme and jesting spent ;

The lover's whisper'd words and few

Have bade the bashful maid adieu;

The dancing-floor is silent quite,

No foot bounds there, Good night, good night!

The lady in her curtain'd bed,

The herdsman in his wattled shed,

The clansmen in the heather'd hall,

Sweet sleep be with you, one and all!
We part in hope of days as bright

As this now gone, Good night, good night!

Sweet sleep be with us one and all ;
And if upon its stillness fall

The visions of a busy brain,

We'll have our pleasure o'er again,

To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! Good night, good night!

LOW GERMANIE.

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

As I sail'd past green Jura's isle,
Among the waters lone,

I heard a voice-a sweet low voice,
Atween a sigh and moan:

With ae babe at her bosom, and

Another at her knee,

A mother wail'd the bloody wars

In Low Germanie.

Oh woe unto these cruel wars

That ever they began,

For they have swept my
Of many a pretty man:

native isle

For first they took my brethren twain, Then wiled my love frae me.

Woe, woe unto the cruel wars

In Low Germanie

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And furrow'd far the brine;

And down his foes came to the shore,

In many a glittering line:

The war-steeds rush'd amang the waves,

The guns came flashing free,

But could nae keep my gallant love

From Low Germanie.

Oh say, ye maidens, have ye seen,
When swells the battle cry,
A stately youth with bonnet blue
And feather floating high,—

An

eye that flashes fierce for all, But ever mild to me?

Oh that's the lad who loves me best

In Low Germanie.

Where'er the cymbal's sound is heard,
And cittern sweeter far,-
Where'er the trumpet blast is blown,

And horses rush to war;

The blithest at the banquet board,

And first in war is he,

The bonnie lad, whom I love best,
In Low Germanie.

I sit upon the high green land,
When mute the waters lie,

And think I see my true-love's sail
Atween the sea and sky.

With ae bairn at my bosom, and
Another at my knee,
I sorrow for my soldier lad
In Low Germanie.

NORA'S VOW.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Hear what highland Nora said:
The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands, both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son.

A maiden's vows, old Callum spoke,
Are lightly made and lightly broke.
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;

Yet, Nora, ere its bloom be gone,

May blithely wed the Earlie's son.

The swan, she said, the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruachan fall and crush Kilchurn;
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly:
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben-Cruachan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river,
To shun the clash of foeman's steel

No highland brogue has turned the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,

She's wedded to the Earlie's son.

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