The book of British ballads . deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell,Their whistling shafts successful flew ; And still, when dewy evening fell,The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Grlenfinlas deepest nook The solitary cabin stood,Fast by Moneiras sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steepd heathy bank, and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,Afar her dubi
The book of British ballads . deck their board; Their simple dress, the Highland plaid,Their trusty guard, the Highland sword. Three summer days, through brake and dell,Their whistling shafts successful flew ; And still, when dewy evening fell,The quarry to their hut they drew. In grey Grlenfinlas deepest nook The solitary cabin stood,Fast by Moneiras sullen brook, Which murmurs through that lonely wood. Soft fell the night, the sky was calm,When three successive days had flown; And summer mist in dewy balm Steepd heathy bank, and mossy stone. The moon, half-hid in silvery flakes,Afar her dubious radiance shed, Quivering on Katrines distant lakes,And resting on Benledis head. Now in their hut, in social guise,Their silvan fare the Chiefs enjoy ; And pleasure laughs in Ronalds eyes,As many a pledge he quaffs to Moy. What lack we here to crown our bliss,While thus the pulse of joy beats high ? What, but fair womans yielding kiss,Her panting breath and melting eye ? H. J. Townsend del. J. Walmaley sc. 245 To chase the deer of yonder shades,This morning left their fathers pile The fairest of our mountain maids,The daughters of the proud Glengyle. Long have I sought sweet Marys heart,And droppd the tear, and heaved the sigh But vain the lovers wily art,Beneath a sisters watchful eye. 4 But thou mayst teach that guardian fair,While far with Mary I am flown, Of other hearts to cease her care,And find it hard to guard her own. Touch but thy harp, thou soon shalt see The lovely Flora of Glengyle,Unmindful of her charge and me, Hang on thy notes, twixt tear and smile. Or, if she choose a melting tale, All underneath the greenwood bough, Will good St. Orans rule prevail, Stern huntsman of the rigid brow ? — Since Enricks fight, since Mornas death,No more on me shall rapture rise, Responsive to the panting breath,Or yielding kiss, or melting eyes. Een then, when oer the heath of woe,Where sunk my hopes of love and fame, I bade my harps wild wailings flow,On me the
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