Musical Illustrations of the Waverley Novels

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.

Hail to thee, thou holy herb,
That sprung on holy ground!
All in the Mount Olivet
First wert thou found.
Thou art boot for many a bruise,
And healest many a wound;
In our Lady's blessed name,
I take thee from the ground.

On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere ye boune ye to rest,
Ever beware that your couch be bless'd;
Sign it with cross, and sain it with bead,
Sing the Ave, and say the Creed.

For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride,
And all her nine-fold sweeping on by her side,
Whether the wind sing lowly or loud,
Sailing through moonshine or swath'd in the cloud.

The Lady she sat in Saint Swithin's Chair,
The dew of the night has damp'd her hair:
Her cheek was pale; but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.

She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight wold,
When he stopp'd the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.

 He that dare sit on Saint Swithin's Chair,
 When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
 Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
 He may ask, and she must tell.

 The Baron has been with King Robert his liege
 These three long years in battle and siege;
 News are there none of his weal or his woe,
 And fain the Lady his fate would know.

 She shudders and stops as the charm she speaks;—
 Is it the moody owl that shrieks?
 Or is it that sound, betwixt laughter and scream,
 The voice of the Demon who haunts the stream?

 The moan of the wind sunk silent and low,
 And the roaring torrent had ceased to flow;
 The calm was more dreadful than raging storm,
 When the cold grey mist brought the ghastly Form!

The monk must arise when the matins ring,
⁠The abbot may sleep to their chime;
But the yeoman must start when the bugles sing,
⁠'Tis time, my hearts, 'tis time.

There's bucks and raes on Bilhope braes,
⁠There's a herd in Shortwood Shaw;
But a lily white doe in the garden goes,
⁠She's fairly worth them a'.

Wasted, weary, wherefore stay,
Wrestling thus with earth and clay?
From the body pass away; —
⁠⁠⁠Hark! the mass is singing.

From thee doff thy mortal weed,
Mary Mother be thy speed.
Saints to help thee at thy need; —
⁠⁠⁠Hark! the knell is ringing.

Fear not snow-drift driving fast,
Sleet, or hail, or levin blast ;
Soon the shroud shall lap thee fast,
And the sleep be on thee cast
⁠⁠⁠That shall ne'er know waking.

Haste thee, haste thee, to be gone.
Earth flits fast, and time draws on, —
Gasp thy gasp, and groan thy groan,
⁠⁠⁠Day is near the breaking.

Heaven cannot abide it,
Earth refuses to hide it.
Open lock — end strife,
Come death, and pass life.

An hour with thee! — When earliest day
Dapples with gold the eastern grey,
Oh, what, can frame my mind to bear
The toil and turmoil, cark and care.
New griefs, which coming hours unfold,
And sad remembrance of the old? —
          One hour with thee!

One hour with thee! — When burning June
Waves his red flag at pitch of noon;
What shall repay the faithful swain,
His labour on the sultry plain,
And more than cave or sheltering bough,
Cool feverish blood, and throbbing brow? —
          One hour with thee!

One hour with thee! — When sun is set,
O, what can teach me to forget
The thankless labours of the day;
The hopes, the wishes, flung away:
The increasing wants, and lessening gains,
The master’s pride, who scorns my pains? —
          One hour with thee!

Bring the bowl which you boast, 
Fill it up to the brim; 
’Tis to him we love most, 
And to all who love him. 
Brave gallants, stand up, 
And avaunt ye, base carles! 
Were there death in the cup, 
Here’s a health to King Charles. 

Though he wanders through dangers, 
Unaided, unknown, 
Dependent on strangers, 
Estranged from his own; 
Though ’tis under our breath, 
Amidst forfeits and perils, 
Here’s to honor and faith, 
And a health to King Charles! 

Let such honors abound 
As the time can afford, 
The knee on the ground, 
And the hand on the sword; 
But the time shall come round 
When, ’mid Lords, Dukes, and Earls, 
The loud trumpet shall sound, 
Here’s a health to King Charles!

Our work is over — over now,
The goodman wipes his weary brow,
The last long wain wends slow away,
And we are free to sport and play.

The night comes on when sets the sun,
And labour ends when day is done.
When Autumn's gone and Winter's come,
We hold our jovial harvest-home.

When Israel, of the Lord beloved,
    Out of the land of bondage came,
Her father’s God before her moved,
    An awful guide, in smoke and flame.
By day, along the astonish’d lands
    The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia’s crimson’d sands
    Return’d the fiery column’s glow.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,
    And trump and timbrel answer’d keen,
And Zion’s daughters pour’d their lays,
    With priest’s and warrior’s voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,
    Forsaken Israel wanders lone;
Our fathers would not know THY ways,
    And THOU hast left them to their own.

But, present still, though now unseen;
    When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen
    To temper the deceitful ray.
And oh, when stoops on Judah’s path
    In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be THOU, long-suffering, slow to wrath,
    A burning, and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel’s streams,
    The tyrant’s jest, the Gentile’s scorn;
No censer round our altar beams,
    And mute our timbrel, trump, and horn.
But THOU hast said, the blood of goat,
    The flesh of rams, I will not prize;
A contrite heart, and humble thought,
    Are mine accepted sacrifice.

Come, trowl the brown bowl to me,
    Bully boy, bully boy,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me:
    Ho! jolly Jenkin, I spy a knave in drinking,
Come, trowl the brown bowl to me.

Wert thou like me in life's low vale,
With thee, how blest! that [life]1 I'd share:
With thee I'd fly [as far as]2 gale
Could waft, or [swelling ocean]3 bear.
But parted by severe decree,
Far different must our fortunes prove;
May thine be joy! enough for me
To weep and pray for him I love.

The pangs this foolish heart [may]4 feel,
When hope [must be for ever gone]5,
No [fruitless sorrow]6 shall reveal,
No [sullen murmur]7 ever own.
Nor will I [thro' my]8 weary years,
[As]9 a pale drooping mourner [rove]10,
While I can think my secret tears
[Are not forgot by]11 him I love.

Farewell to Northmaven,
Grey Hillswicke, farewell!
The storms on thy haven,
The storms on thy fell,
To each breeze that can vary
The mood of thy main,
And to thee, bonny Mary!
We meet not again!

Farewell the wild ferry,
Which Hacon could brave,
When the peaks of the Skerry
Where white in the wave.
There's a maid may look over
These wild waves in vain,
For the skiff of her lover,
He comes not again!

The vows thou hast broke,
On the wild currents fling them;
On the quicksand and rock
Let the mermaidens sing them.
New sweetness they'll give her
Bewildering strain;
But there's one who will never
Believe them again.

O were there an island,
Though ever so wild,
Where woman could smile, and
No man be beguiled,
Too tempting a snare
To poor mortals were given;
And the hope would fix there,
That should anchor in heaven.

Love wakes and weeps 
While Beauty sleeps ; 
Oh! for music's softest numbers 
To prompt a theme 
For Beauty's dream, 
Soft as the [pillow]1 of her slumbers! 

Through groves of [palm]2 
Sigh gales of balm ; 
Fire-flies on the air are wheeling ; 
While through the gloom 
Comes soft perfume, 
The distant beds of [flowers]3 revealing. 

Oh! wake and live! 
No dreams can give 
A shadowed bliss the real excelling ; 
No longer sleep 
From lattice peep, 
And list the tale that love is telling!

Then in my gown of sober gray
    Along the mountain path I'll wander,
  And wind my solitary way
    To the sad shrine that courts me yonder.

  There, in the calm monastic shade,
    All injuries may be forgiven;
  And there for thee, obdurate maid,
    My orisons shall rise to heaven.
          THE CRUEL LADY OF THE MOUNTAINS.