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The lady of Ellerslie wept for her lord,

And the death-watch beat in her lonely room, For the curtains had shook of their own accord, And the raven flapp'd at her window board,

To tell of her warrior's doom.

Now sing ye the death-song, and loudly pray

For the soul of my knight so dear,
And call me a widow this wretched day,

Since the warning of God is near,
For the night-mare rides in my strangl'd sleep;

The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die,
His valorous heart they have wounded deep,
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,

For William of Ellerslie,

Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,

Ere the loud matin bell had rung,
That the trumpet of death on an English tower,

Had the dirge of her champion sung,
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red,

On the high-born blood of a martyr slain, No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed, No weeping there was when his bosom bled,

And his heart was rent in twain.

Oh ! it was not thus when his oaken spear,

Was true to the knight forlorn, When hosts of a thousand, were scatter'd like deer,

At the blast of the hunter's horn.

When he strode o'er the wreck of each well fought field,

With the yellow-bair’d chiefs of his native land,
His spear was not shiver'd on helmet or shield,
And the sword that seem'd fit for archangel to wield,

Was light in his terrible hand.

Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight

For his much lov'd country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight

Than William of Ellerslie,
But the day of his glory shall never depart,

His heart unentomb'd shall with glory be palm’d,
From the blood streaming altar his spirit shall start,
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,

A nobler was never embalmid.



And has she then fail'd in her truth,

The beautiful maid I adore,
Shall I ne'er again hear ker voice,

Nor see her lovd form any more,
No, no, no. I shall ne'er see her more."

* From the Persian tale of Selima and Azor; also introduced in the Farce of “ Love in a Village,"

Ah! Selima, cruel you prove,

Yet sure my hard lot you'll bewail,
I could not presume you would love,
Yet pity I hop'd would prevail,

And has she then, &c.

Since hatred alone I inspire,

Life henceforth is not worth my care,
Death now is my only desire,
I give myself up to despair.

And has she then, foc.



'Where art thou? on the moon-beams? oh! no, no;
But in this hard world thou art seen no more :
Sweet Pity, o'er the wild waves let us go,

* This mad song is from the tale of the Soldier's Orphan, by Mrs. Castello. It is singular enough, says Dr. Percy, that the English have many more songs and ballads on the subject of madness than any other kingdom whatever; whether there be any truth in the insinuation, that we are more liable to this calamity than other nations, or that our native gloominess hath And in some flow'ry iste,

There will we rest all day;
And I will kiss my love's last tears away.

And we again shall smile,
Like infants in their sleep. Hark" 'twas the road
Of the remorseless tempest, that whelms all,
All my fond hopes. Rock on, thou gloomy deep!

To the noise of thy tempest I call;
No, no, I will not weep,
Tho' they sound in my ear like despair.
Saw you a child with golden hair ?
'Twas love, his eyes so sweetly shining,
All hearts to tenderness inclining,

Yet oh ! beware,
How sweet was his voice, when hand link'd in hand,

We pass'd o'er scenes of fairy land;

But he left me, unpitied, to fate!
And o'er my sinking head the storm blew desolate.
Then he whom I lov'd-but I will not complain,
Tho' I never, oh never, shall see him again.

peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers. In the French, Italian, and other collections are found very few pieces on this subject.



No glory I covet, no riches I want,

Ambition is nothing to me;
The one thing I beg of kind heaven to grant,

Is a mind independent and free.

With passion unruffled, untainted with pride,

By reason my life let me square :
The wants of my nature are cheaply supplied,

And the rest is but folly and care.

The blessings wbich providenee freely has lent,

I'll justly and gratefully prize,
While sweet meditation and cheerful content,

Shall make me both bealthful and wise. "

* This excellent song, which, for beauty and strength of sentiment, has few equals, we have extracted from a Collection of “ Miscellancous Poerns, by several hands. Published by D. Lewis, London, 1730.

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