Interlude after The Witch of Fife

When ceased the minstrel's crazy song,
His heedful glance embraced the throng,
And found the smile of free delight
Dimpling the cheeks of ladies bright.
Ah ! never yet was bard unmoved,
When beauty smiled or birth approved !
For though his song he holds at nought —
" An idle strain ! a passing thought !"
Child of the soul ! 'tis held more dear
Than aught by mortals valued here.

When Leven's bard the Court had viewi
His eye, his vigour, was renewed.
No, not the evening's closing eye,
Veiled in the rainbow's deepest dye,
By summer breezes lulled to rest,
Cradled on Leven's silver breast,
Or slumbering on the distant sea,
Imparted sweeter ecstasy. /
Nor even the angel of the night,
Kindling his holy sphere of light,
Afar upon the heaving deep,
To light a world of peaceful sleep,
Though in her beam night-spirits glanced,
And lovely fays in circles danced,
Or rank by rank rode lightly bye, —
Was sweeter to our minstrel's eye.

Unheard the bird of morning crew ;
Unheard the breeze of Ocean blew ;
The night unweened had passed away,
And dawning ushered in the day.
The Queen's young maids, of cherub hue,
Aside the silken curtains drew,
And lo the Night, in still profound,
In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground ;
And still her furs, so light and fair,
Floated along the morning air.
Low stooped the pine amid the wood,
And the tall cliffs of Salisbury stood
Like marble columns bent and riven,
Propping a pale and frowning heaven.

The Queen bent from her gilded chair,
And waved her hand with graceful air :—
" Break up the Court, my lords ; away,
And use the day as best you may,
In sleep, in love, or wassail cheer ;
The day is dark, the evening near —
Say, will you grace my halls the while,
And in the dance the day beguile ?
Break up the Court, my lords ; away,
And use the day as best you may.
Give order that my minstrels true
Have royal fare and honours due ;
And warned by evening's bugle shrill,
We meet to judge their minstrel skill." —
Whether that Royal Wake gave birth
To days of sleep and nights of mirth,
Which kings and courtiers still approve,
Which sages blame, and ladies love,
Imports not ; — but our courtly throng
(That chapel Wake being kept so long)
Slept out the lowering short-lived days,
And heard by night their native lays,
Till fell the eve of Christmas good,
The dedication of the rood.

Ah me ! at routs and revels gay,
Reproach of this unthrifty day,
Though none amongst the dames or men
Rank higher than a citizen,
In chair or chariot all are borne,
Closed from the piercing eye of morn ;
But then, though dawning blasts were keen,
Scotland's high dames you might have seen,
Ere from the banquet hall they rose,
Shift their laced shoes and silken hose ;
Their broidered kirtles round them throw,
And wade their way through wreaths of snow,
Leaning on Lord or lover's arm,
Cheerful and reckless of all harm.
Vanished those hardy times outright :
So is our ancient Scottish might.

Sweet be her home, admired her charms,
Bliss to her couch in lover's arms,
I bid in every minstrel's name,
I bid to every lovely dame,
That ever gave one hour away
To cheer the bard or list his lay !

To all who love the raptures high
Of Scottish song and minstrelsy,
Till next the night, in sable shroud,
Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood,
That rival minstrels' songs I borrow —
I bid a hearty kind good-morrow.