Interlude before Dumlanrig

The bard had sung so bold and high,
While patriot fire flashed from his eye,
That ere King Edward won to rest,
Or sheet was spread above his breast,
The harp-strings jarred in wild mis-tone ;
The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone.
Upon his harp he leaned his head,
And softly from the ring was led.

The next was from a western vale,
Where Nith winds slowly down the dale ;
Where play the waves o'er golden grain,
Like mimic billows of the main.
Of the old elm his harp was made,
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade :
No gilded sculpture round her flamed,
For his own hand that harp had framed,
In stolen hours, when, labour done,
He strayed to view the parting sun.
O, when the toy to him so fair,
Began to form beneath his care,
How danced his youthful heart with joy !
How constant grew the dear employ !
The sun would chamber in the Ken ;
The red star rise o'er Locherben ;
The solemn moon, in sickly hue,
Waked from her eastern couch of dew,
Would half way gain the vault on high,
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by,
And still the bard his task would ply.

When his first notes, from covert gray,
Arrested maiden on her way ;
When ceased the reaper's evening tale,
And paused the shepherd of the dale, —
Bootless all higher worldly bliss,
To crown our minstrel's happiness !
What all the joys by fortune given,
To cloyless song, the gift of Heaven ?

That harp could make the matron stare,
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,
Make patriot breasts with ardour glow,
And warrior pant to meet the foe ;
And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung.
At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame ;
His was a song beloved in youth, —
A tale of weir — a tale of truth.