THE

Harp of Benfrewshire.

I.

GLEN-ORRA.

THE gale is high, the bark is light,
Swiftly it glides the dark sea over,
Why bear, ye waves, so base a freight,
Why waft, ye winds, a vagrant lover.
Wake, artless maid, thy dream is o'er,

No bright'ning hope can gild the morrow,

Thy lover hails a distant shore,

Nor thinks of thee far in Glen-Orra.

The moon is up, the maiden's gone,

Where flower and tree the night dews cover,

To weep by mountain streamlet lone,
O'er perjur'd vows of faithless lover.

K

Turn, faithless wretch, seek Orra's wild,
To rapture raise the maiden's sorrow,
Ah! see where love so lately smil❜d,

Cold, cold, she sinks in dark Glen-Orra.

The moon hangs pale o'er Orra's steep,
And lists a hapless maiden sighing,
The sullen night-winds, cavern'd sleep,
As loath to rave o'er maiden dying.
The hue of death has blench'd the lip,
The rosy cheek is pale with sorrow,
Ere morn, death's chilly hand shall nip
The loveliest flower in green Glen-Orra.

II.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.

AIR" Cadil gu lo."

O slumber, my darling, thy sire is a knight,

Thy mother a lady so lovely and bright,

The hills and the dales from the tow'rs which we see,
They all shall belong, my dear infant, to thee.

O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may.

O fear not the bugle, tho' loudly it blows,
It calls but the wardens that guard thy repose,

Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the foot of a foeman drew near to thy bed.

Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
Then rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may.

O slumber, my darling, the time it may come,
When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum,
Then hush thee, dear baby, take rest will you may,
For strife comes with manhood as light comes with day,
O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep on till day,
O rest thee, babe, rest thee, babe, sleep while you may.

III.

THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE.*

Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried,
Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot,

O'er the grave where our hero was buried.

* We have not been able to obtain any information who it was that wrote this poetical elegy, nor are there any traces which afford room for conjecture. It appeared at first in several of the public newspapers, from whence it was copied into Blackwood's Magazine for the month of June, 1817. The affair, however, to which it refers, and the distinguished person whom it so justly