SONG ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF BUCCLEUCH.

At the Great Football Match at Carterhaugh, 15 Dec., 1815.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,

Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame; And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,

Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and

more;

In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before!

When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,

For around them were marshalled the pride of the Border,

The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of Buccleuch.

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasped her, no spearmen surround;

But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her

A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

We forget each contention of civil dissension, And hail, like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and Car:

And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,

And if by mischance you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather,

And life is itself but a game at football.

And when it is over we 'll drink a blithe

measure

To each laird and each lady that witnessed

our fun,

And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,

To the lads that have lost and the lads that

have won.

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward,

From the hall of the peer to the herd's inglenook;

And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buccleuch and his standard,

For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke!

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and

more;

In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before!

SIR WALTER Scott.

SNOWSHOEING SONG.

HILLOO, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!

Gather, gather, ye men in white;

The winds blow keenly, the moon is bright,
The sparkling snow lies firm and white;

Tie on the shoes, no time to lose,
We must be over the hills to-night.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!
Swiftly in single file we go,

The city is soon left far below,

Its countless lights like diamonds glow;
And as we climb we hear the chime

Of church bells stealing o'er the snow.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!

Like winding-sheet about the dead,
O'er hill and dale the snow is spread,
And silences our hurried tread ;
The pines bend low, and to and fro
The magpies toss their boughs o'erhead.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!

We laugh to scorn the angry blast,
The mountain top is gained and past.
Descent begins, 't is ever fast –

One short quick run, and toil is done,
We reach the welcome inn at last.

Shake off, shake off the clinging snow;
Unloose the shoe, the sash untie,
Fling toque and mittens lightly by;
The chimney fire is blazing high,
And, richly stored, the festive board
Awaits the merry company.

Remove the fragments of the feast!
The steaming coffee, waiter, bring!
Now tell the tale, the chorus sing,
And let the laughter loudly ring;
Here's to our host, drink down the toast,
Then up! for time is on the wing.

Hilloo, hilloo, hilloo, hilloo!

The moon is sinking out of sight,

Across the sky dark clouds take flight,

And dimly looms the mountain height;
Tie on the shoes, no time to lose,

We must be home again to-night.

ARTHUR Weir.

SKATERS' SONG AT NIGHT.

WHEN glass-like glints the cracking ice
And shines a skater's paradise;

When eager air breathes keen delight,
And diamonds dart from starlit night;
Leave, leave your care;

What sport so rare!

Our blades they flash, our bodies swing,
Like Time and birds we're on the

wing;

The frosty stars their music sing;
And we we'll make the welkin ring!

For life's a day -a span

And fierce the fight 'twixt weak and strong;
Youth's hour-glass swift its course doth run
From happy dawn till set of sun.

To joy give way,

While yet you may!

Our blades they flash, our bodies swing,
Like Time and birds we're on the

wing;

The frosty stars their music sing;

And we

·we'll make the welkin ring!

HORACE SPENCER FISKE.