'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we, That dwell by dale and down: And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the green-wood shalt thou speed As blithe as Queen of May.' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green! I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English Queen. 'I read you by your bugle horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the King's green-wood.' 'A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.' Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay! I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May! 'With burnish'd brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon, That lists the tuck of drum.' 'I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear. 'And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare, Would reign my Queen of May! 'Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die; The fiend whose lantern lights the mead Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met Beneath the green-wood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.' Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather flowers there Would grace a summer queen. Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 544. Lucy Ashton's Song LOOK not thou on beauty's charming; Sit thou still when kings are arming; Taste not when the wine-cup glistens; Speak not when the people listens; Stop thine ear against the singer; From the red gold keep thy finger; Vacant heart and hand and eye, Easy live and quiet die. Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 545. Answer SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name. Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 546. The Rover's Adieu A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid, A weary lot is thine! To pull the thorn thy brow to braid, And press the rue for wine. A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien, A feather of the blue, A doublet of the Lincoln green-- No more of me ye knew, My Love! No more of me ye knew. 'This morn is merry June, I trow, The rose is budding fain; But she shall bloom in winter snow Ere we two meet again.' --He turn'd his charger as he spake Upon the river shore, He gave the bridle-reins a shake, Said 'Adieu for evermore, My Love! And adieu for evermore.' Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832 547. Patriotism 1. Innominatus