SONG: THE CAVALIER.

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 shield the brave gallant that fights for the
crown!

He has doffed the silk doublet the breast-plate 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 shield 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 watch-word is honor, his pay is renown,
God 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 Mont

rose!

Would you match the base Skippon, and Massy, and Brown,

With the barons of England that fight for the crown?

Now joy to the crest of the brave cavalier!

Be his banner unconquered, 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!
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

GLEE FOR KING CHARLES.

BRING the bowl which you boast,
Fill it up to the brim;

'Tis to him we love most,

And to all who love him.

Brave gallants,

stand up,

And avaunt, ye base carles!

Were there death in the cup,

Here's a Health to King Charles!

Though he wanders through dangers,
Unaided, unknown,

Dependent on strangers,

Estranged from his own;

Though 't is under our breath,

Amidst forfeits and perils,

Here's to honor and faith,

And a Health to King Charles!

Let such honors abound

As the time can afford,

The knee on the ground,

And the hand on the sword;

But the time shall come round,

When, 'mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls,

The loud trumpet shall sound,

Here's a Health to King Charles!

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Woodstock

THE SOLDIER'S DREAM.

OUR bugles sang truce- for the night-cloud had lower'd,

And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky; And thousands had sunk on the ground overpower'd, The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.

When reposing that night on my pallet of straw,
By the wolf-scaring fagot that guarded the slain,
At the dead of the night a sweet vision I saw,
And thrice ere the morning I dreamt it again.

Methought from the battle-field's dreadful array,
Far, far I had roam'd on a desolate track;
'T was autumn, - and sunshine arose on the way
To the home of my fathers, that welcomed me back.

I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft

In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft,

And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung.

Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore, From my home and my weeping friends never to

part;

My little ones kiss'd me a thousand times o'er,
And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart.

Stay, stay with us — rest, thou art weary and worn;
And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay;
But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn,
And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.

ROSABELLE.

O LISTEN, listen, ladies gay!
No haughty feat of arms I tell;
Soft is the note, and sad the lay,
That mourns the lovely Rosabelle.

"Moor, moor the barge, ye gallant crew!
And, gentle lady, deign to stay!
Rest thee in Castle Ravensheuch,
Nor tempt the stormy firth to-day.

"The blackening wave is edged with white;
To inch and rock the sea-mews fly;
The fishers have heard the water-sprite,
Whose screams forebode that wreck is nigh.

"Last night the gifted seer did view

A wet shroud swathed round lady gay;
Then stay thee, Fair, in Ravensheuch:
Why cross the gloomy firth to-day?"

14 'Tis not because Lord Lindesay's heir
To-night at Roslin leads the ball,

But that my lady-mother there
Sits lonely in her castle-hall.

"'Tis not because the ring they ride,

And Lindesay at the ring rides well,
But that my sire the wine will chide,
If 't is not filled by Rosabelle.”

O'er Roslin all that dreary night

A wondrous blaze was seen to gleam: 'T was broader than the watch-fire's light, And redder than the bright moonbeam.

It glared on Roslin's castled rock,

It ruddied all the copse-wood glen; 'Twas seen from Dryden's groves of oak, And seen from caverned Hawthornden.

Seemed all on fire that chapel proud,
Where Roslin's chiefs uncoffined lie;
Each baron, for a sable shroud,
Sheathed in his iron panoply.

Seemed all on fire, within, around,
Deep sacristry and altar's pale:
Shone every pillar foliage-bound,
And glimmered all the dead men's mail.

Blazed battlement and pinnet high.

Blazed every rose-carved buttress fair,
So still they blaze, when fate is nigh
The lordly line of high St. Clair.

There are twenty of Roslin's barons bold Lie buried within that proud chapelle: