Alake! that the harp is nae langer heard,
Beguilin' the lee--lang night!
Its tones the heart can bind,
And ease the wounded mind;
Ne'er, ne'er can I count him a friend to mankind,
Whase saul it fails to delight!

Auld Scotia, still is thy music dear,
It minds us o' times that were:
By it thy sons are led,
Aft to a gory bed,
Ay freedom defendin', nae haughty foe they dread,
And it lightens ilk cottar's care.

Come list, and ye's hear of a blithe Harper,
Wha cam to our Baron's Ha';
O he tickled ilka string,
And made the auld Ha' ring;
His music was fittin' for the ear of a king,
And it pleas'd our young ladies a'.

Aft had merry minstrels in this Ha',
In praise o' heroes sung;
While aloft the massy shield,
And sword but few could wield,
That aft had been stain'd in the Border field,
Wi' hauberk and helmet hung.

A bonnet o' the green he wore down to his een,
And lang was his beard, and brown;
He was cloak'd frae head to heel,
Frae his lips when words did steal,
Sae gently he spak, that it shew'd fu' weel,
He monie better days had known.

And now, aloud he tun'd his harp to war,
Wild and mournfu' was the strain;
Then of fae--men he sang,
And the trumpet's chang,
It seem'd, as he swept the strings amang;
O but our auld Baron was fain!

For it brought fresh to mind the days o' his youth,
When to the English Borders he flew;
And aft in Lydisdale,
He made widows wan and pale,
For he heeded nae proud borderer, or baron in mail,
But age had now whiten'd his pow.

To love, wi' a sigh, he gae his saftest note,
And sweet, O sweet was the sound;
Then he sang o' maidens fair,
And o' lovers sad despair,
How thearrows o' the urchin cause mickle, mickle care,
And deadly aft proves the wound.

Then of dames forsaken by proud fause knights,
Maist dirge--like chaunted he;
Sae weel he play'd his part,
He touch'd deeply ilka heart,
And tears frae the een now of a' 'gan to start,
Save those o' our Baron's cross ladie.

For proud was her heart, and whene'er she spak,
The dark frown hung on her brow;
Ay haughty was her mind,
Ne'er felt she for mankind;
But yet to a' her fauts the guid Baron was blind,
And sae the sweet dochters I trow.

She has ey'd the Harper, wi' monie a scornfu' luik
That spak him nae welcome guest,
--A'ye, to whom great Heav'n
Baith health and walth has giv'n,
Shield, shield the weary wanderer by monie a sorrow driv'n;
Ay bless, as ye hope to be blest!

''Whare comest thou frae, thou Harper puir and mean?
What ill deed has brought thee here?''
''I come o'er hight and howe,
But for nae ill deed, I vow;
And my kin hae been whiles thought walthy I trow,
But a lang tale might tire your nice ear!

''Mickle cou'd I tell o' this sly wicked warl,
Whare folk ca'd great are aft to blame;
I've seen virtue meanly clad,
And fore'd to beg for bread;
While vice strutted lordly, and wore a haughty head,
But mair I perchance mauna name.

''Sae gie me some meat, and gie me some drink,
And a bed whereon to lie;
For, alake! I am but puir,
Mickle, mickle I endure;
Far, far hae I wander'd o'er moss and o'er muir,
And hungry, weary am I!''

Lady Ellinor brought him the bluid--red wine;
Lady Margaret sought him meat:
But the youngest, Lady Jean,
Gied a glance wi' her een,
That shone bright as onie starnies i' the sky, I ween,
Woo but this made his leel heart beat.

For ne'er did a minstrel frae north or south
Gaze heedless on beauty's charms:
Ae saft bewitchin' smile,
Whare the heart seems void o' guile,
Maks proud man cast his cares to the winds for a while,
And a savage o' his rage it disarms.

Then spak, wi' a smile, our guid auld Baron,
To his sullen and sour ladie;
''Since puirtith is nae sin,
And far he canna win,
The Harper ae night shall sleep our Ha' within,
My ladie, if thy will it be.''

Now wi' a frown, she has answer'd the Baron,
''Nae Harper, I trow, shall sleep here!
He may rest i' the fauld,
The night is no' sae cauld;
And if weary, I guess he's no' sae auld--
A beggar has nought to fear!''

Lady Jean whisper'd o'er her left shoulder,
''Sleep, sleep i' the fauld!'' says she,
''For mild is the night,
And if I hae but might,
Lang ere the siller muin shews a glimpse o' light,
God save me, love, I'll meet thee!''

Wi' a lang luik o' luive, he crap aff to the fauld,
But ne'er ance did sleep close his e'e;
The night grew cauld and snell,
And he said to himsel,
Wi' monie a deep sigh, when he heard the midnight bell,
''Why comest thou not, ladie, to me?''

''O woman, woman, cause o' man's greatest joy,
And source o' mickle grief and pain;
Now you mak him coward, slave,
Now ilk doughty deed he'll brave;
Wha heeds you, may e'en trust the fickle wind or wave,
Ne'er, I swear, shall you tempt me again!

''And lang or the muin gies a glimpse o' light,
God save me, luive, I'll meet thee!
Saft were her words, and sweet,
They made this proud heart beat;
Thou muin, yet dinna rise! methinks I hear her feet--
No!--Fause were her sweet words to me!''

The first cock crew, silence reign'd i' the Ha';
Lady Jean left her sisters asleep;
Bare--footed, down the stair,
Saftly stept the ladie fair,
And unbelted the gate o' the Ha', wi' mickle care,
Her promise fu' fain to keep.

She's aff to the fauld, wi' a beatin' heart,
Syne awa' wi' the Harper is gane;
Wi' a kiss, and monie a vow,
His plaid o'er her he threw,
And he luiked like a gallant young lord, I trow,
Wi' a sword monie a faeman had slain.

Now bright shone the muin o'er the misty hills,
And white were the meads wi' dew;
Lady Jean, wi monie fears,
Thinks the Baron's voice she hears,
And her mither's angry chide aft rings thro' her ears:
O love! thy cares are not few!

O'er mountains high, o'er monie a moss and muir,
They journey'd, or break o' day;
When in a flowery vale,
Quite weary, faint, and pale,
Lady Jean sat her down, and mickle did she ail,
Nae farther, alake! could she gae.

Wi' dew on his breast, the lark had left his nest,
To greet the blithe god o' the morn;
The wild birds saftly sang,
The neigbrin' woods amang,
''O cou'dst thou,'' quoth the Harper, ''but o'er yon mountains gang,
A' thy father's swift steeds would I scorn!

''That I've lo'ed lang, that I've lo'ed weel,
The pangs o' this bosom can prove;
What man dare, I would dare;
What he cou'd bear, I'd bear,
And laugh at the threats o' the warl, and ilka care,
A' for thee, sweet maid o' my love!''

''Tho' rash was the deed I hae duin,'' quoth she,
''That deed I scorn to rue;
If by Fate it were decreed,
Thy Jean shou'd beg for bread,
A' the ills o' pale poverty I'd bear without dread,
Were my Harper but leel and true!''

He sigh'd, and his eye spoke his feeling soul,
While it rov'd o'er each peerless charm;
Not the dew--bespangl'd rose,
Not the purest mountain snows
Cou'd rival her face, which nature proudly chose
To combine wi' an angel's form.

And now wi' the sun rose the Baron and his clan,
And he ca'd for his dochters three;
Lady Ellinor he saw,
Lady Margaret and a',
But the flow'r o' them a', Lady Jean was awa',
And an angry man was he.

''Fie, ride, run!'' said he, ''baith east and west,
Nor seek ye lang in vain!
Bring them back to me,
And on the highest tree,
Of a' the proud forest, suin he hanged shall be,
For stcalin' awa' Lady Jean!

But much did he fear his scornfu' dame,
Whase luik spak a gathering storm;
Tho' to man great pow'r is giv'n,
Great masterpiece of Heav'n,
Yet howe'er he to rage by misfortune may be driv'n,
Let him yield to the female form.

Then some ran east, and some rade west,
When down in a flowery glen,
Lady Jean they espied,
Seated by her lover's side;
And to please her, aft wi' his harp has he tried,
In monie a merry lilting strain.

''Say what do ye here? thou fause Harper,
Wi' us gae back to the Ha';
By the Baron sent are we,
And on the highest tree,
Of a' the proud forest, thou hanged wilt be,
For stealin' our ladie awa'!''

Says the Harper, ''Spare your mistress fair,
For weary and faint is she!''
''Our mistress we will spare,
Tho' thoughtless as she's fair,
And back to the Baron convey wi' mickle care,
But an ill death waiteth thee!''

''Gae hame to the Baron, and tell your fuil's errand,
Nor waste monie words on the blast;
Aff hirelings! aff, nor dare
To touch the ladie fair;
Or by a puir Harper's faith and troth I swear,
This day ye may count your last!''

Then the Harper loudly leugh, as he rase,
''Gae tell Baron Sessfoorth frae me,
The Harper nit to blame,
I hae duin nae deed o' shame,
And for every castle or tower he can name,
To his dochter I'll gie three!

''And tell,'' said he, ''your sullen ladie,
Nae mair a puir Harper to scauld;
Tho' his claithing seem'd but mean,
Weel he's lo'ed by lady Jean,
And had monie a glance o' her bonnie blue een,
Twa years ere he laid i' the fauld!''

He tuik ladie Jean by the lily saft hand,
And thrice kiss'd her cheek the while;
''Fear not!'' he sighin' cried,
''Whate'er may us betide;
I swear by this sword, nought shall our hearts divide,''
Then she gied him a saint--like smile.

He has stript aff his cloak frae head to heel,
And woo but he luiked bra'!
For his hose were silken fine,
And his studded star did shine,
It prov'd that he cam of a noble line,
Tho' a Harper he seem'd at the Ha'.

''Now mount thy father's steed, sweet ladie fair,
And to my castle let us gae;
This night shall see us one,
And ere the setting sun,
Thy parents bless the time, when awa' thou didst run,
In the mirk hour o' night, wi' the Douglas' eldest son,
And thy lord on his harp will sweetly play;

''But if e'er proud minstrel frae north or south
Gaze heedless on beauty's charms,
I count him sinner vile:
Ae saft bewitchin' smile,
Wi' a fond luik o' luive, frae a heart void o' guile,
Shou'd mak man cast his cares to the winds for a while;
E'en a savage o' his rage it disarms!''

Alake, that the harp is sae seldom heard,
Beguilin' the lee--lang night!
Its tones the heart can bind,
And socthe the wounded mind;
In sorrow's darkest hour frae it we comfort find,
And ne'er will I count him a friend to mankind,
Whase saul it fails to delight!

Auld Scotia, still is thy music dear;
It minds us o' times that were:
By it thy sons are led,
Aft to a gory bed,
Ay freedom defendin', nae haughty foe they dread;
LIt saftens monie a heart, and aft the tear is shed,
As it lightens the cottar's care!