"I 've Margerton, Gornberry, Raeburn, and Netherby, Old Sim of Whitram, and all his array; Come, all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland, Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray." Scowl'd the broad sun o'er the links of green Liddisdale, Red as the beacon-light tipp'd he the wold; Many a bold martial eye Mirror'd that morning sky, Never more oped on his orbit of gold! Shrill was the bugle's note, dreadful the warrior shout, Lances and halberts in splinters were borne; Halberd and hauberk then Braved the claymore in vain, Buckler and armlet in shivers were shorn. See how they wane, the proud files of the Windermere, Howard--ah! woe to thy hopes of the day! Hear the wide welkin rend, While the Scots' shouts ascend, "Elliot of Lariston, Elliot for aye!" I HAE NAEBODY NOW. I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To meet me upon the green, Wi' light locks waving o'er her brow, An' joy in her deep blue e'en; Wi' the raptured kiss an' the happy smile, An' the dance o' the lightsome fay, An' the wee bit tale o' news the while That had happen'd when I was away. I hae naebody now, I hae naebody now To clasp to my bosom at even, O'er her calm sleep to breathe the vow, An' pray for a blessing from heaven. An' the wild embrace, an' the gleesome face In the morning, that met my eye, Where are they now, where are they now? In the cauld, cauld grave they lie. There 's naebody kens, there 's naebody kens, An' O may they never prove, That sharpest degree o' agony For the child o' their earthly love-- To see a flower in its vernal hour By slow degrees decay, Then, calmly aneath the hand o' death, Breathe its sweet soul away. O, dinna break, my poor auld heart! Nor at thy loss repine, For the unseen hand that threw the dart Was sent frae her Father and thine; Yet I maun mourn, an' I will mourn, Even till my latest day; For though my darling can never return, I can follow the sooner away. THE MOON WAS A-WANING. The moon was a-waning, The tempest was over; Fair was the maiden, And fond was the lover; But the snow was so deep, That his heart it grew weary, And he sunk down to sleep, In the moorland so dreary. Soft was the bed She had made for her lover, White were the sheets And embroider'd the cover; But his sheets are more white, And his canopy grander, And sounder he sleeps Where the hill foxes wander. Alas, pretty maiden, What sorrows attend you! I see you sit shivering, With lights at your window; But long may you wait Ere your arms shall enclose him, For still, still he lies, With a wreath on his bosom!