Beneath the greenwood bough What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now."

Chorus.

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,
And Greta woods are green,
And you may gather garlands there
Would grace a summer-queen.

LAKE CORISKIN.

[From The Lord of the Isles, Canto iii.] A WHILE their route they silent made, As men who stalk for mountain-deer, Till the good Bruce to Ronald said,

"Saint Mary! what a scene is here! I've traversed many a mountain-strand, Abroad and in my native land, And it has been my lot to tread Where safety more than pleasure led; Thus, many a waste I've wandered o'er, Clombe many a crag, cross'd many a moor,

But, by my halidome,

A scene so rude, so wild as this,
Yet so sublime in barrenness,
Ne'er did my wandering footsteps press,
Where'er I happ'd to roam.'

No marvel thus the Monarch spake;
For rarely human eye has known
A scene so stern as that dread lake,

With its dark ledge of barren stone. Seems that primeval earthquake's sway Hath rent a strange and shatter'd way

Through the rude bosom of the hill, And that each naked precipice, Sable ravine, and dark abyss,

Tells of the outrage still. The wildest glen, but this, can show Some touch of Nature's genial glow; On high Benmore green mosses grow, And heath-bells bud in deep Glencroe, And copse on Cruchan-Ben;

above, around, below,

On mountain or in glen,

Nor tree, nor shrub, nor plant, nor flower, Nor aught of vegetative power,

The weary eye may ken.

So that a stripling arm might sway
A mass no host could raise,
In Nature's rage at random thrown,
Yet trembling like the Druid's stone
On its precarious base.

The evening mists, with ceaseless change,

Now clothed the mountains' lofty range,
Now left their foreheads bare,
And round the skirts their mantle furl'd,
Or on the sable waters curl'd,
Or on the eddying breezes whirl'd,
Dispersed in middle air.

And oft, condensed, at once they lower, When, brief and fierce, the mountain shower

Pours like a torrent down, And when return the sun's glad beams, Whiten'd with foam a thousand streams Leap from the mountain's crown.

"This lake," said Bruce, "whose barriers drear

Are precipices sharp and sheer,
Yielding no track for goat or deer,

Save the black shelves we tread,
How term you its dark waves? and how
Yon northern mountain's pathless brow,
And yonder peak of dread,
That to the evening sun uplifts
The grisly gulfs and slaty rifts,

Which seam its shiver'd head?" "Coriskin call the dark lake's name, Coolin the ridge, as bards proclaim,

From old Cuchullin, chief of fame.
But bards, familiar in our isles
Rather with Nature's frowns than smiles,
Full oft their careless humors please
By sportive names from scenes like
these.

I would old Torquil were to show
His maidens with their breasts of snow,
Or that my noble Liege were nigh
To hear his Nurse sing lullaby!
(The Maids-tall cliffs with breakers
white,

The Nurse -a torrent's roaring might,)
Or that your eye could see the mood
Of Corryvrekin's whirlpool rude,
When dons the Hag her whiten'd
hood-

'Tis thus our islesmen's fancy frames, For scenes so stern, fantastic names."

THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN.

[Lord of the Isles, Canto vi.]

X.

THE King had deem'd the maiden bright

Should reach him long before the fight,
But storms and fate her course delay:
It was on eve of battle-day:

When o'er the Gillie's hill she rode,
The landscape like a furnace glow'd,
And far as e'er the eye was borne,
The lances waved like autumn-corn.
In battles four beneath their eye,
The forces of King Robert lie.
And one below the hill was laid,
Reserved for rescue and for aid;
And three, advanced, form'd vaward-
line,

'Twixt Bannock's brook and Ninian's shrine.

Detach'd was each, yet each so nigh
As well might mutual aid supply.
Beyond, the Southern host appears,
A boundless wilderness of spears,
Whose verge or rear the anxious eye
Strove far, but strove in vain, to spy.
Thick flashing in the evening beam,
Glaives, lances, bills, and banners
gleam;

And where the heaven join'd with the

hill,

Was distant armor flashing still,
So wide, so far, the boundless host
Seem'd in the blue horizon lost.

XI.

Down from the hill the maiden pass'd,
At the wild show of war aghast;
And traversed first the rearward host,
Reserved for aid where needed most.
The men of Carrick and of Ayr,
Lennox and Lanark, too, were there,
And all the western land;

With these the valiant of the Isles Beneath their chieftains rank'd their files,

In many a plaided band.

There, in the centre, proudly raised,
The Bruce's royal standard blazed,
And there Lord Ronald's banner bore
A galley driven by sail and oar.
A wild, yet pleasing contrast, made
Warriors in mail and plate array'd,
With the plumed bonnet and the plaid

By these Hebrideans worn;
But O! unseen for three long years,
Dear was the garb of mountaineers
To the fair Maid of Lorn!
For one she look'd - but he was far
Busied amid the ranks of war-
Yet with affection's troubled eye
She mark'd his banner boldly fly,
Gave on the countless foe a glance,
And thought on battle's
chance.

XIV.

desperate

O gay, yet fearful to behold,
Flashing with steel and rough with gold,
And bristled o'er with bills and spears,
With plumes and pennons waving fair,
Was that bright battle-front! for there

Rode England's King and peers:
And who, that saw that monarch ride,
His kingdom battled by his side,
Could then his direful doom foretell!
Fair was his seat in knightly selle,
And in his sprightly eye was set
Some spark of the Plantagenet.
Though light and wandering was his
glance,

And gave his battle-axe the swing. Right on De Boune, the whiles he pass'd,

Fell that stern dint- the first-the last!

Such strength upon the blow was put,
The helmet crash'd like hazel-nut;
The axe-shaft, with its brazen clasp,
Was shiver'd to the gauntlet grasp.
Springs from the blow the startled horse,
Drops to the plain the lifeless corse;
- First of that fatal field, how soon,
How sudden, fell the fierce De Boune!

XXI.

Now onward, and in open view,
The countless ranks of England drew,
Dark rolling like the ocean-tide,
When the rough west hath chafed his
pride,

And his deep roar sends challenge wide
To all that bars his way!
In front the gallant archers trode,
The men-at-arms behind them rode,
And midmost of the phalanx broad
The Monarch held his sway.
Beside him many a war-horse fumes,
Around him waves a sea of plumes,
Where many a knight in battle known,
And some who spurs had first braced

Upon the spot where they have kneel'd, These men will die or win the field.".

"Then prove we if they die or win! Bid Gloster's Earl the fight begin."

XXIII.

Then spurs were dash'd in chargers' flanks,

They rush'd among the archer ranks, No spears were there the shock to let, No stakes to turn the charge was set, And how shall yeoman's armor slight, Stand the long lance and mace of might?

Or what may their short swords avail, 'Gainst barbed horse and shirt of mail? Amid their ranks the chargers sprung, High o'er their heads the weapons swung,

And shriek and groan and vengeful shout

Give note of triumph and of rout!
Awhile, with stubborn hardihood,
Their English hearts the strife made
good.

Borne down at length on every side,
Compell'd to flight, they scatter wide.
Let stags of Sherwood leap for glee,
And bound the deer of Dallom-Lee!
The broken bows of Bannock's shore
Shall in the greenwood ring no more!
Round Wakefield's merry May-pole

Both Southern fierce and hardy Scot;
And O! amid that waste of life,
What various motives fired the strife!
The aspiring Noble bled for fame,
The Patriot for his country's claim;
This Knight his youthful strength to
prove,

And that to win his lady's love;
Some fought from ruffian thirst of
blood,

From habit some, or hardihood.
But ruffian stern, and soldier good,
The noble and the slave,

From various cause the same wild road,
On the same bloody morning, trode,
To that dark inn, the grave!

O give their hapless prince his due!
In vain the royal Edward threw

His person 'mid the spears,
Cried, "Fight!" to terror and despair,
Menaced, and wept, and tore his hair,

And cursed their caitiff fears;
Till Pembroke turn'd his bridle rein,
And forced him from the fatal plain
With them rode Argentine, until
They gain'd the summit of the hill,
But quitted there the train:
"In yonder field a gage I left,
I must not live of fame bereft ;
I needs must turn again.

Speed hence, my Liege, for on your