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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,
Since the warning of God is near,
The lord of my bosom is doom'd to die,
For William of Ellerslie,
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell had rung,
Had the dirge of her champion sung,
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,
Was light in his terrible hand.
Yet bleeding and bound, though the Wallace wight
For his much lov'd country die,
Than William of Ellerslie,
His heart unentomb'd shall with glory be palm’d,
A nobler was never embalmid.
AND HAS SHE THEN FAIL'D IN HER TRUTH'.
And has she then fail'd in her truth,
The beautiful maid I adore,
Nor see her lov’d form any 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,
And has she then, &c.
Since hatred alone I inspire,
Life henceforth is not worth my care,
And has she then, foc.
WHERE ART THOU? ON THE MOON-BEAMS.
'Where art thou? on the moon-beams? oh! no, no;
* 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 we again shall smile,
To the noise of thy tempest I call;
Yet oh ! beware,
We pass'd o'er scenes of fairy land;
But he left me, unpitied, to fate!
peculiarly recommended subjects of this cast to our writers. In the French, Italian, and other collections are found very few pieces on this subject.
THE WAY TO BE HAPPY
No glory I covet, no riches I want,
Ambition is nothing to me;
Is a mind independent and free.
With passion unruffled, untainted with pride,
By reason my life let me square :
And the rest is but folly and care.
The blessings wbich providenee freely has lent,
I'll justly and gratefully prize,
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.