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He has taen three locks o' her yellow hair,
And wi' them strung his harp sae fair.

And he brought the harp to her father's hall,
And there the court was assembled all.

He laid this harp upon a stone,
And straight it began to play alone.

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"O yonder sits my father, the king!
And yonder sits my mother, the queen!
"And yonder stands my brother Hugh,
And by him my William sweet and true!"
But the last time that the harp played then,
Binnorie, O Binnorie,

Was, "Woe to my sister, false Helen!"
By the bonnie mill-dams o' Binnorie.

CHAMBERS's SCOTTISH BALLADS.

Helvellyn,

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Helvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

SCOTT.

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown meadow heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him-
Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

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And pages stand mute by the canopied pall : Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam

And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Helvellyn and Catchedicam.

Complaint of being Pestered by Bad
Bad Poets.

FROM THE EPISTLE TO DR. ARBUTHNOT.

SHUT, shut the door, good John! fatigued I said,
Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead.
The dog-star rages! nay, 't is past a doubt,
All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out:

Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand,
They rave, recite, and madden round the land.

SCOTT.

What walls can guard me, or what shades can hide?
They pierce my thickets, through my grot they glide.
By land, by water, they renew the charge;
They stop the chariot, and they board the barge.
No place is sacred, not the church is free,
Even Sunday shines no Sabbath day to me;
Then from the Mint walks forth the man of rhyme,
Happy! to catch me, just at dinner-time.

Is there a parson much bemused in beer,
A maudlin poetess, a rhyming peer,

A clerk fore-doomed his father's soul to cross,
Who pens a stanza when he should engross?

POPE.

Is there, who, locked from ink and paper, scrawls
With desperate charcoal round his darkened walls?
All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain
Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain.
Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the laws,
Imputes to me and my damned works the cause:
Poor Cornus sees his frantic wife elope,
And curses wit, and poetry, and Pope.

Friend to my life! (which did not you prolong,
The world had wanted many an idle song,)
What drop or nostrum can this plague remove?
Or which must end me, a fool's wrath or love?
A dire dilemma! either way I'm sped;

If foes, they write; if friends, they read me dead.
Seized and tied down to judge, how wretched 1?
Who can't be silent, and who will not lie:
To laugh, were want of goodness and of grace;
And to be grave, exceeds all power of face.
I sit with sad civility; I read

With honest anguish and an aching head;
And drop at last, but in unwilling ears,
This saving counsel, “Keep your piece nine years."

"Nine years!" cries he, who high in Drury-lane, Lulled by soft zephyrs through the broken pane, Rhymes ere he wakes, and prints before term ends, Obliged by hunger,—and request of friends: "The piece, you think, is incorrect? why take it; "I'm all submission; what you'd have it, make it."

Three things another's modest wishes bound, My friendship, and a prologue, and ten pound.

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Pitholeon sends to me: "You know his Grace; "I want a patron; ask him for a place." Pitholeon libelled me-" but here 's a letter 'Informs you, Sir, 't was when he knew no better. "Dare you refuse him? Curll invites to dine; “He'll write a journal, or he 'll turn divine.”

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!"

Bless me! a packet.-" "T is a stranger sues, “A virgin tragedy, an orphan muse.” If I dislike it, "furies, death, and rage If I approve," commend it to the stage." There (thank my stars) my whole commission ends, The players and I are, luckily, no friends. Fired that the house reject him, "'S death I 'll print it, "And shame the fools-your interest, Sir, with Lintot."

Lintot, dull rogue! will think your price too much :"

"Not, Sir, if you revise it, and retouch."

All my demurs but double his attacks:

At last he whispers, "Do, and we go snacks."

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Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door,
"Sir, let me see your works and you no more."

The Spring.

Now that the winter 's gone, the earth has lost
Her snow-white robes: and now no more the frost
Candies the grass, or casts an icy cream
Upon the silver lake or crystal stream:

POPE.

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