O may this tale of former days
But cheat the bosom of a sigh,
How pleas'd will be the unknown Bard,
Who boasteth not of minstrelsy !
Tho' weak the tones of his broken harp,
And he in song with few can vie,
Fain would he sing in virtue's praise,
And dry the tear from sorrow's eye;
Tho' poverty hath bow'd him low,
And the wise and wealthy pass him by.

O have you heard of young Ellinor,
The peerless maid of fair Cumberland?
How, where Eden steals to merry Carlyle,
Her castle did hill and dale command?
Or how she lov'd the bold young Dacre,
And the Black Baron he sought her hand?

And have you heard how young Ellinor
Had suitors far from east and west?
How, she was fairest of all the fair,
And of maidens good, she was the best?
How, virtue shone in every smile,
And pity's mansion was her breast?
How, when the helpless sought her aid,
Each found himself a welcome guest?
How, many a courteous knight and squire,
For love of her, could take no rest?

But love is oft a load of woe;
And love is oft a dangerous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with every care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heavenly joys, or to dark despair.

And have you heard of the gallant Dacre,
The tyrant's scourge; his country's pride?
Whose shield borne by his ancestry,
With many a foeman's blood was dy'd;
His look made captive high--born dames,
Yet ne'er to win a heart he tried:
War was the hero's dear delight;
Ay when his country call'd, he hied;
Yet to soothe the sorrows of weak man,
O'er moor and mountain he would ride.

And have you heard of Corbye Castle,
Where wild woods wave, and waters flow;
And many an aged spreading oak
Shelters the nimble deer and roe?
How its rocks are high, and its bow'rs are sweet,
And it seems a paradise below?
How it is the seat of as bold a race,
As e'er welcom'd friend, or fac'd a foe?
How there fair Ellinor first drew breath,
As sweet a bud as the eye e'er saw?
O never from this castle gate,
May the beggar poor unpitied go!
For blest are they who soothe distress;
And heal the pains of want, and woe!

If you have not heard, then rest a while,
And you shall hear a true--told song;
It first was chaunted by old Grey Graeme,
Who lived the silver birks among:
And now the minstrel rests in peace,
Long may it please both old and young!

A song oft drives dull care away,
When Winter nights are dark and long;
Beguiles the labour of the day;
And he who scorns a well--meant song,
Whate'er he be, it seemeth to me,
In that he always acteth wrong.

''And who,'' you say, ''was old Grey Graeme?''
He was a minstrel, blithe and gay;
And oft in Corbye's antient hall,
He to fair Ellinor lov'd to play;
And sweet to her were his ditties wild,
That told of many a former day;
Of Scottish knights, of English dames,
And how fell the brave in border fray;
But alas! his songs are heard no more,
Or the harp's wild notes on the stone so grey;
For time who worketh every change,
Hath swept the simple strains away.

How few they be now in our days,
Who in old hall e'er sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh;
And from the eye a tear can bring.

Grey Graeme was born in western Isle,
And for Scotland's King had fought and bled;
But when he spake of his five brave sons,
The old man wept and hung his head:
For they were slain by the furious Dane,
When the foe's bleak shore was dy'd with red;
Still did he bow to the will of heav'n,
Though every joy of life was fled;
And long in hall, or by ivied tow'r,
Or near castle gate had he play'd for bread.

Oft he would tell right merry tales;
Oft he would caution list'ning youth;
Oft warn the old of death's approach,
With serious look, in lays uncouth:
For much Grey Graeme had seen, I trow,
And much had sought in quest of truth:
And many a mountain steep had cross'd,
Since time had mark'd his manly growth.

Sweet were his strains, at eve's grey hour,
When Summer's carpet deck'd the ground;
And now to love he'd strike the harp;
Now to wild war the strings he'd sound:
Now songs of sorrow, soft and slow,
Would draw a tear from all around;
Next changing to a lightly strain,
The laughing maid would frisk and bound.

O music! music, thy pow'r is great!
It cures the mind of many a wound;
Cold is the heart it cannot melt--
Of such, I hope but few are found!

Alas! alas! how few they be,
Who in old hall now sweep the string!
How few reward the minstrel poor!
How few of other times can sing!
'Tis sweet to hear the song of old,
That oft hath made the wild woods ring;
It warms the heart of wrinkl'd age,
And makes man taste a second spring;
It cheats the bosom of a sigh,
And from the eye a tear can bring:
By music sooth'd, in want or woe,
Quick to the winds all cares we fling.

Grey Graeme was bent, his locks were white,
Pale was his face, and sunk his een;
Yet still a smile bespoke content,
Tho' poor this harper was, I ween:
Fair Ellinor stripp'd off his worn--out weeds,
And clad him all in a garb of green.

His lodgment was a small house of stone,
Where he could laugh at the winter keen:
Still was he priz'd whene'er he stray'd,
By wealthy squire, or peasant mean.
The ruin near the silver birks,
Tells where old Grey Graeme's hut has been;
And the mould'ring stone that marks his grave,
By many a wanderer yet is seen.

Now it fell about the blithe new year,
When mountains high were capp'd with snows;
Young Dacre he would a hunting go,
And threescore men and three he chose:
Saying ''We will range both wood and wild,
Where to merry Carlyle old Eden flows!''

Ne'er would he bow to tyranny;
His mind was bent on Freedom's cause;
Ne'er had he sigh'd a slave to love,
Nor did he dream of a peerless rose.

In border fray, or in foreign fight,
He brav'd the boldest of the field;
Ay when his country cried to arms,
The first was he to grasp the shield,
For many a foe had own'd his might,
But few his massy sword could wield;
And glory was his whole delight,
But glory oft to love must yield.

Yes, glory must to love give way;
The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!

With merry hearts, each drank his ale,
And they are all a hunting gone;
The dogs were swift, and the sports were good,
And bounding deer full many a one,
And wily fox, the farmer's hate,
And hare as fleet as e'er could run;
Such, Dacre, and his merry clan,
Had slain, before the day was done.

They hunted many a wood and wild,
Where Eden strays to merry Carlyle;
And when the evening frosts come on,
What pleasure was, was now a toil.
Red Robin on a high hill stood,
And distant saw an antient pile;
''And in that castle,'' quoth the Dacre,
''We may, methinks, find rest a while.

''For rest brings health, and blithe content;
And rest can all our cares beguile;
And rest is still the good man's friend,
But justly scorns the sinner vile.

''And when the moon peeps o'er the hill,
We will hie home right speedily;
And to--morrow drink of the nut--brown ale,
And tell what merry sports had we;
But may he never taste nut--brown ale,
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!

''Yet by my fay, I none have seen,
Who e'er could make a slave of me!
The piercing eye, the rosy cheek,
The snowy breast, and the heart of glee;
Nay, were she fairest of the fair,
With every grace of the graces three,
I would not bow a female's slave,
For all the wealth of Christendie!
He who delighteth in hero's deeds,
From ladie's look must keep him free!

''For when love shoots his arrows keen,
Care snatches all our joys away;
Sunk in an agony of woe,
Love claims the night, love claims the day:
And love can pierce decrepid age,
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks so grey;
Love opes alike the palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
Love holds each lure to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray.

''Now, comrades all, let's merry be,
And thankful, still, for pleasures past--
Oh! mercy on the houseless poor,
Who bear keen want, and the piercing blast!
But He who guides this frightful storm,
Can give the weary ease at last.''

The light shone bright in Corbye Castle,
And loud the northern blast did blow,
Where spreading woods of leafless trees
Shelter'd the trembling deer and roe:
The star of eve now lent a ray,
Now hid by many a cloud of snow;
While Eden o'er his rocky bed,
In hollow sounds was heard below.

The Dacre knock'd loud at the gate;
And who so ready was, within,
As fair Ellinor to unbolt the gate,
And welcome strangers, kith or kin?
Quoth Dacre, ''An angel by my fay!
Such beauty would tempt to sin:
Methinks, when nature form'd that face,
'Twas wisely meant the world to win!''

Yes glory must to love give way;
The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
And he who scorns the fairest fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow!

Now she has curtsey'd to the Dacre,
And bid them welcome, one by one;
She has given to each the nut--brown ale,
To the bold Dacre she gave none;
But a silver horn of the blood--red wine,
And a look that any heart might won;
For fairer maid was never form'd,
I trow, to grace a proud monarch's throne

With trembling lips, and blushing cheek,
With gazing eye, and breast of flame,
Soon as he told what drew them there,
And who he was, and whence he came;
The look of pleasure mark'd her face,
Soon as she heard the hero's name,
And he was welcomed with a smile,
That tyranny itself might tame.

And much he suffer'd from that look,
For it has cost him many a sigh:
Now having learn'd where stands his hall,
And the streaming Lyne hoarse murmurs by,
And O his name! a name well known,
O'er oceans wide, and mountains high,
She lighted him to the fairest chamber,
Wherein the Dacre he might lie;
Tho' he wearied was, the long, long night,
Love wou'd not let him close an eye.

For love it causeth sleepless nights,
And love it causeth days of pain;
And when love robs us of our rest,
'Tis long ere we can rest again;
It makes a coward of the hero bold,
And binds him with a silken chain;
Time only can relief afford,
To struggle proves too oft in vain:
From palac'd prince, to vassal vile,
Mankind he tames o'er earth and main.

How cou'd he sleep? He saw her form;
Her winning look; her easy grace;
He heard her voice, most musical,
Then thought he of her matchless face;
And of the praise her sire had won,
For she was of a noble race:
The more he thought, the more he sigh'd,
All seemed quite an enchanted place.
With pride, long may he bless the hour,
When with his clan he sought the chace!

But love is like the opening rose,
When Phoebus ushers in the morn;
Tho' fragrant blooms this queen of flow'rs,
Its leaves conceal a piercing thorn:
As fades a rose, when the bleak blast blows,
So love is blighted by ladie's scorn.

And love is like a lily flow'r;
And love is like a feverish dream;
A bitter draught it soon may turn,
Tho' now life's luxury supreme.

Young Ellinor is to her chamber gone,
But good lack--a--day! she cannot rest!
She dreams not of the lords and knights
Who sought her, far from east and west;
But feels a pain ne'er felt before,
And many a sigh escapes her breast:
In fancy, she beholds the smile,
And manly form of her far--fam'd guest--
Of Dacre, why does she think and start?
Those who in love have been, know best.

But love is oft a load of woe;
And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It makes time fly on leaden wings,
And fills the breast with ev'ry care;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there;
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.

When the black shades of night were gone,
And from his roost the grey cock crew,
Who rose so ready as the young Dacre,
In hopes soon Ellinor to view?
For she was fair as the mountain snows;
Her cheek bloom'd with health's rosy hue;
And o'er her bosom, pure as white,
Her flaxen locks in tresses flew.
Ah! who cou'd gaze, and not be won,
When Love laugh'd in her eyes of blue!

For Love can wound, without a scar;
And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.

By day and night, Love wings his flight,
O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
His bow is bent to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Can freedom give, and banish pain!

The next that rose Brown Adam was;
And the Gibsons, that by Irthing dwell;
The Scotts, who fear no Scottish laws;
The Weirs; the Jardins; and the Bell;
Jocks Tom, who knew each roaring linn,
Each moor and mountain, moss and dell;
Hob o' the Syke, and his two sons,
Who fought the best at Tindle Fell;
The Howme Foot Harry; Grizzy's George;
And Hardy Wat, no man cou'd fell.

The Potts'; the Elliots o' the Buss;
Strang Wull; and Gib o' Hether Side;
Blue Davie o' the Hingan Shaw;
The laird's young Ralph, Kirklinton's pride;
The Nobles; Fosters; John o' Cleugh;
Old Hardin, that had most been tried;
Black Fergus, that slew young Buccleugh,
And Liddal's flood ay scorn'd to ride;
Braid Andrew; Geordie o' the Burn;
Names known and dreaded, the borders wide.

Brown Barney, o' the Buller Syke;
And Smiddy Dick; and Cocker Will;
And white Tom's Tom; and Kirsty's Kit;
And Rose--trees Rob; and Three--thoum'd Gill:
Lang Philip, now bent short with age,
Fam'd far and wide, for healing skill;
The dart o' death ay fain to ward,
But ne'er wou'd draw a doctor's bill.

The Carrs, the brag o' Leversdale;
The Jameses five, from Scaleby Hill,
Who wan the day at Brampton fray,
And drave the fae--men 'yont the mill;
They'd fly to face the fiercest Scot,
But ne'er wou'd do a neighbour ill.

And Bolton Clem, with Clem his son;
White Willy o' the Bleaberry;
Mad Matt; and Sawney o'er the Knowe;
Red Sim, with all his billies three;
The least stood full two yards in height,
The one a giant was to see;
Oft did they strip the Scottish howmes,
And many a Scot they made to flee:
Each had his home on the Dacre' lands,
And they were a goodly company.

And they were welcom'd, one, two, and three,
By Ellinor, into the hall;
Where the tables groan'd with wholesome fare,
And blithe and merry I trow were all:
And old Grey Graeme, in his garb of green,
Who still was ready at our ladie's call,
Now with his harp was seated near,
And sung of many a brave warrior's fall.

O music! music, thy power is great!
It cures the mind of many a wound;
Cold is the heart it cannot melt--
Of such, I hope but few are found.

Alas! the Dacre nor eat nor drank,
But sunk a willing prey to love;
And oft he check'd the rising sigh,
And oft to join in mirth he strove.
Ah! little thinks the dauntless youth,
What pains, what pleasures, he must prove!

Yes, glory must to love give place;
The brave to beauty still must bow;
In vain we scorn the urchin bold,
In vain to 'scape his snares we vow:
The crimson'd cheek, and the eye of fire,
Will drive a frown from the hero's brow;
Who scorns the fairest of the fair,
May soon be captive led, I trow;
And he who was so bold of late,
A willing slave, sits sighing now.

With wistful gaze, uprose the Dacre,
'Tis far, far to his woody glen;
Where stands his hall, and his tower strong,
The Scots oft tried to seize in vain:
There, watching, sits his feeble mother,
Praying for him, and his dauntless men;
For, O, he was her only son,
Her only child now left of ten!

Yound Ellinor's lily hand he kiss'd,
And sad he look'd, and she turn'd pale;
What moment of this life so sweet,
As when we list true lover's tale?
And thrice he vow'd a solemn vow,
Ere the next moon shone in the vale,
Again he'd range both wood and wild,
And his comrades drink of her nut--brown ale:
The last look told her how he lov'd,
And how her loss he would bewail.

For when Love shoots his arrows keen,
Mirth follows mirth, hours dance away
Rapt in an exstacy of bliss,
Love claims the night, Love claims the day:
Love opes alike the proud palace gates,
And the lowly latch of the shepherd gay;
And Love can pierce decrepid age,
With furrow'd cheeks, and locks of grey;
Love lends new joys to glowing youth,
That oft, alas! the heart betray!

Now as they homeward bent their way,
Where waters flow, and wild woods wave,
Young Dacre many a look behind,
To Corbye's fading castle gave.
The tale and song, the laugh and joke,
No more his sinking spirits save;
Nor heeded he their revelrie,
For he was beauty's willing slave,
Whose smile gives man each dear delight,
Whose frown oft sends him to the grave.

Quoth Potts, ''I's haud my guid scotch quey,
We suin wull hunt thes way again!''
''Nay!'' cries old Hardin, ''tous ay wrang!
Our laird maun come tes way hes lane!
Hey's stout and comely, a beauty shey,
And o' his choize he may weel be vain;
But the fairest shey, in a' Chressendie,
I wad the Dacre caw'd her his ain!''

Quoth Noble, ''shey's a bwonnie bird,
Whare we hae been! woo but I'd gie
My weyfe, my gear, my bairnies five,
Just yenze her hinny mou to prie!''
''Hout, hout!'' cries Sim, ''gie mey her yell!
For her kisses I'd no care a flea!''
''Haith!'' quoth the Cleugh, ''our laird afore,
Has gott'n his deeth frae her pawkie e'e!
But a lass sae bwonnie, young, and guid,
I trow, wull a reeght kind doctress be!''

Now as they pass'd thro' merry Carlyle,
They were a comely sight to view;
The wives threw open their windows wide,
And marvell'd much what was to do:
Not one was there, but in border fray,
Had made his man full dearly rue;
And not all the men in old Carlyle town,
Could have taken the Dacre and his brave few!

And as they pass'd thro' Rickar Gate,
Quoth Brown Adam, ''There's the spot, I trow,
Whare liv'd the flow'r of a' Carlyle;
And sweet to me was her hinny mou!
Tho' she was woo'd by a' around,
Yet to be mine, she made a vow;
And for my winsome breyde, my Jean,
I wheyles gat bang'd; bein aft blin fou:
But, Deil rive my sark, gin a Carel chiel
Dare cry bo! to Brown Yeddy, now!''

And when they cross'd the Carlyle sands,
Cries Davie, ''Mark yon castle wa';
Mak our young Dacre the governor,
And the bravest Scot e'er Scotland sa'
Shou'd he an Armstrang dare rescue,
He suin wad feel a Dacre's blow:
The girt Buccleugh, and a' his crew,
Wad ne'er hae ventur'd here awa!
But wae betide yer suthern lwords!
A manly sword they darena dra'!''

The Dacre heard, but silent heard,
For love had fill'd his breast with care;
And love oft proves a load of woe,
And love is oft a dang'rous snare;
It robs youth of the rose's hue,
And plants a faded lily there:
Love leads to bliss; love leads to pain;
To heav'nly joys, or to dark despair.

How eager sits his good old mother,
Young Dacre watching, from tower high;
And many with their children look,
''They suin wull come!'' oft do they cry:
They gaze along the woody glen,
And o'er the hill with eager eye,
When swift and swifter over the moor,
Foremost they see the Dacre fly.
''O, God be prais'd!'' says the feeble mother,
''I count them all in safety nigh!
And long may happiness be theirs,
The manly clan I now espy!''

They parted, fain to be at home,
A father, child, or wife to see;
To--morrow they drink the nut--brown ale,
And keep the Dacre good companie:
Each man will drink to fair Ellinor,
And tell their sports, with merry glee;
But may he never taste nut--brown ale,
Who hunting hates, or a fair ladie!
And he whose heart is sunk in love,
I wish him soon from trouble free!

For Love can wound, without a scar;
And Love can bind, without a chain;
Mid' savage Winter's frightful storms,
Love finds his way o'er land and main:
Love's arrows pierce the bravest heart,
And soon subdue the proud and vain;
And when man bows a slave to Love,
'Tis hard his freedom to regain.

By day and night, Love wings his flight,
O'er barren heath, and flow'ry plain;
Mid' Summer's heat, and Winter's cold,
Love glories in his tyrant reign:
He bends his bow to wound the heart
Of monarch proud, or lowly swain;
But one kind glance from her we prize,
Will freedom give, and banish pain!