The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast, Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast; But of fir we make ships, we have thousands that fight,
While one, only one, like our Shakspeare can write. All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.
Let Venus delight in her gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers;
The garden of Shakspeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers, and fairest of fruit.
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.
With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd birch
Supplies law and physic, and grace for the church; But law and the gospel in Shakspeare we find, And he gives the best physic for body and mind. All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.
The fame of the patron gives fame to the tree,
From him and his merits this takes its degree;
Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign,
Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine.
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.
The genius of Shakspeare outshines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey;
So the tree that he planted, by making his own,
Has laurel, and bays, and the vine, all in one.
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree, &c.
Then each take a relic of this hallow'd tree;
From folly and fashion a charm let it be:
Fill, fill to the planter the cup to the brim;
To honour the country, do honour to him.
All shall yield to the mulberry-tree;
Bend to thee,
Bless'd mulberry!
Matchless was he.
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal shalt be.
HUNTING SONG.
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 mountains grey,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
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 greenwood haste away;
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot and tall of size,
We can show the marks he made
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
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 balk?
Staunch as hound, and fleet as hawk;
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords, and ladies gay.
THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.
WHEN wild war's deadly blast was blawn,
And gentle peace returning,
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless,
And mony a widow mourning:
I left the lines and tented field,
Where lang I'd been a lodger,
My humble knapsack a' my wealth,
poor and honest sodger.
A leal*, light heart was in my breast,
My hand unstain'd wi' plunder:
And for fair Scotia, hame again,
I cheery on did wander.
I thought upon the banks o' Coil,
I thought upon my Nancy,
I thought upon the witching smile
That caught my youthful fancy.
At length I reach'd the bonny glen,
Where early life I sported;
I pass'd the mill, and trysting* thorn,
Where Nancy aft I courted:
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid,
Down by her mother's dwelling!
And turn'd me round to hide the flood
That in my een was swelling.
Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, 'Sweet lass,
Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom,
O! happy, happy may he be,
That's dearest to thy bosom!
My purse is light, I've far to gang,
And fain would be thy lodger;
I've serv'd my king and country lang,
Take pity on a sodger.'
Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me,
And lovelier was than ever; Quo' she, 'A sodger ance I lo'edt, Forget him shall I never: Our humble cot, and hamely fare, Ye freely shall partake it, That gallant badge, the dear cockade, Ye're welcome for the sake o't.'
* To tryste is to make an appointment.
t Once I loved.
She gaz'd-she redden'd like a rose→→→
Syne* pale like ony lily;
She sank within my arms, and cried,
'Art thou my ain dear Willie?'
By him who made yon sun and sky-
By whom true love's regarded,
I am the man: and thus may still
True lovers be rewarded!
'The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame,
And find thee still true-hearted!
Though poor in gear, we're rich in love,
And mair we'se ne'er t be parted.'
Quo' she, My grandsire left me gowd‡,
A mailený plenish'd fairly;
And come, my faithfu' sodger lad,
Thou'rt welcome to it dearly.
'For gold the merchant ploughs the main,
The farmer ploughs the manor;
But glory is the sodger's prize,
The sodger's wealth is honour;
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise,
Nor count him as a stranger,
Remember he's his country's stay,
In day and hour of danger.'
O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide
That day I was my Willie's bride;
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