The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume I Part 40

[82] "Rokeby," canto third.

ALLEN-A-DALE.[83]

Allen-a-Dale has no f.a.ggot for burning, Allen-a-Dale has no furrow for turning, Allen-a-Dale has no fleece for the spinning, Yet Allen-a-Dale has red gold for the winning; Come, read me my riddle! come, hearken my tale!

And tell me the craft of bold Allen-a-Dale.

The Baron of Ravensworth prances in pride, And he views his domains upon Arkindale side, The mere for his net, and the land for his game, The chase for the wild, and the park for the tame; Yet the fish of the lake and the deer of the vale Are less free to Lord Dacre than Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale was ne'er belted a knight, Though his spur be as sharp, and his blade be as bright; Allen-a-Dale is no baron or lord, Yet twenty tall yeomen will draw at his word; And the best of our n.o.bles his bonnet will vail, Who at Rere-cross on Stanmore meets Allen-a-Dale.

Allen-a-Dale to his wooing is come; The mother she asked of his household and home; "Though the castle of Richmond stand fair on the hill, My hall," quoth bold Allen, "shows gallanter still; 'Tis the blue vault of heaven, with its crescent so pale, And with all its bright spangles," said Allen-a-Dale.

The father was steel and the mother was stone, They lifted the latch, and they bade him be gone; But loud, on the morrow, their wail and their cry, He had laugh'd on the la.s.s with his bonny black eye, And she fled to the forest to hear a love-tale, And the youth it was told by was Allen-a-Dale.

[83] "Rokeby," canto third.

THE CYPRESS WREATH.[84]

Oh, lady! twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Too lively glow the lilies' light, The varnish'd holly 's all too bright, The mayflower and the eglantine May shade a brow less sad than mine; But, lady, weave no wreath for me, Or weave it of the cypress-tree!

Let dimpled mirth his temples twine With tendrils of the laughing vine; The manly oak, the pensive yew, To patriot and to sage be due; The myrtle bough bids lovers live But that Matilda will not give; Then, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Let merry England proudly rear Her blended roses, bought so dear; Let Albin bind her bonnet blue With heath and harebell dipp'd in dew.

On favour'd Erin's crest be seen The flower she loves of emerald green; But, lady, twine no wreath for me, Or twine it of the cypress-tree!

Strike the wild harp while maids prepare The ivy meet for minstrel's hair; And, while his crown of laurel-leaves, With b.l.o.o.d.y hand the victor weaves, Let the loud trump his triumph tell; But when you hear the pa.s.sing-bell, Then, lady, twine a wreath for me, And twine it of the cypress-tree!

Yes, twine for me the cypress bough; But, O Matilda, twine not now!

Stay till a few brief months are past And I have look'd and loved my last!

When villagers my shroud bestrew With pansies, rosemary, and rue,-- Then, lady, weave a wreath for me, And weave it of the cypress-tree!

[84] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

THE CAVALIER.[85]

While the dawn on the mountain was misty and gray, My true love has mounted his steed and away, Over hill, over valley, o'er dale, and o'er down;-- Heaven s.h.i.+eld the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

He has doff'd the silk doublet the breastplate to bear, He has placed the steel cap o'er his long flowing hair, From his belt to his stirrup his broadsword hangs down-- Heaven s.h.i.+eld the brave gallant that fights for the crown!

For the rights of fair England that broadsword he draws, Her king is his leader, her church is his cause, His watchword is honour, his pay is renown,-- G.o.d strike with the gallant that strikes for the crown!

They may boast of their Fairfax, their Waller, and all The roundheaded rebels of Westminster Hall; But tell these bold traitors of London's proud town, That the spears of the north have encircled the crown.

There 's Derby and Cavendish, dread of their foes; There 's Erin's high Ormond, and Scotland's Montrose!

Would you match the base Skippon, and Ma.s.sey, and Brown, With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier, Be his banner unconquer'd, resistless his spear, Till in peace and in triumph his toils he may drown, In a pledge to fair England, her church, and her crown!

[85] "Rokeby," canto fifth.

HUNTING SONG.[86]

Waken, lords and ladies gay, On the mountain dawns the day, All the jolly chase is here, With hawk, and horse, and hunting-spear!

Hounds are in their couples yelling, Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling, Merrily, merrily, mingle they-- "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Springlets in the dawn are steaming, Diamonds on the brake are gleaming: And foresters have busy been To track the buck in thicket green; Now we come to chant our lay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay, To the green-wood haste away; We can shew you where he lies, Fleet of foot and tall of size; We can shew the marks he made When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd; You shall see him brought to bay, "Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay, Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well as we; Time, stern huntsman! who can baulk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk?

Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay.

[86] First published in the continuation of Strutt's Queenhoohall, 1808, inserted in the _Edinburgh Annual Register_, of the same year, and set to a Welsh air in Thomson's _Select Melodies_, vol. iii., 1817.

OH, SAY NOT, MY LOVE, WITH THAT MORTIFIED AIR.

Oh, say not, my love, with that mortified air, That your spring-time of pleasure is flown; Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair, For those raptures that still are thine own.

Though April his temples may wreathe with the vine, Its tendrils in infancy curl'd; 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine, Whose life-blood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fas.h.i.+on'd as light as a fay's, Has a.s.sumed a proportion more round, And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze, Looks soberly now on the ground--