SIR WALTER SCOTT.
Sleep! nor dream in yonder glen,
How thy gallant steed lay dying.
Huntsman, rest! thy chase is done,
Think not of the rising sun,
For at dawning to assail ye,
Here no bugles sound reveillé.
52.
Jock of Hazeldean.
I.
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sail be his bride:
And ye sail be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen"—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
II.
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',
His sword in battle keen:—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.
III.
Nor braid to bind your hair;
80
