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O, young Lochinvar | is come out of the west, |
Through all the wide border | his steed was the best; ]
And save his good broadsword, he weapon had none, |
He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone. Į
So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, |
There never was knight | like the young Lochinvar. |

He staid not for brake, and he stopped not for stone,
He swam the Eske river | where ford there was none; |
But, ere he alighted at Netherby_gate, |
The bride had consented, the gallant came late: |
For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, |
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar. I

So, boldly he entered the Netherby hall, | Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:1


Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, I (For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,) | "O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, | Or to dance at our bridal, young lord Lochinvar ?" |

"I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied ; | 1 Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide; † | And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, | To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. I There are maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far, I That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar." |

*The ballad of Lochinvar is in a very slight degree founded on a ballad called "Katharine Janfarie," which may be found in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border."


† See the novel of Redgauntlet, for a detailed picture of some of the extraordinary phenomena of the spring-tides in the Solway


The bride kiss'd the goblet; the knight took it up, |
He quaff'd off the wine, and he threw down the cup. I
She look'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh, |
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye. I
He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar, — |
"Now tread we a measure!" | said young Lochinvar. |

So stately his form, and so lovely her face, I
That never a hall such a galliarda did grace:|
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, I
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and

And the bride-maidens whisper'd, ""T were better by far

To have match'd our fair cousin | with young Lochinvar." |

One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall-door, and the charger stood near;

So light to the croup the fair lady he swung, | So light to the saddle | before her he sprung!| "She is won! we are gone, | over bank, bush and scaur;b

They'll have fleet steeds that follow," | quoth young Lochinvar.

There was mounting 'mong Græmes of the Netherby clan; |

Forsters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:

There was racing, and chasing, | on Cannobie Lee,
But the lost bride of Netherby | ne'er did they see. |
So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, |
Have ye e'er heard of gallant, like young Lochinvar! |


b Gâl'yård. Skår, a craggy, stony hill; a cliff, cleft, or division, or separation in a bank, hill, or any thing else.



The boy stood on the burning_deck, |
Whence all but him had fled; |
The flame that lit the battle's wreck, |
Shone round him o'er the dead. I

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, |
As born to rule the storm; |
A creature of heroic blood, |

A proud, though child-like form. I

The flames roll'd on - he would not go, |
Without his father's word; |

That father, faint in death below,

His voice no longer heard. I

He call'd aloud-"Say, father, say |
If yet my task is done?" |
He knew not that the chieftain lay |
Unconscious of his son. I

"Speak, father!" once again he cried, I
"If I may yet be gone!" |
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on. I

Upon his brow he felt their breath, |
And in his waving hair; |

And look'd from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

*Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son to the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile,) after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel, when the flames had reached the powder.

And shouted but once more, aloud, |

"My father! must I stay?" |


While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, |
The wreathing fires made way. I

They wrapt the ship in splendor wild, |
They caught the flag on high, |
And stream'd above the gallant child, |
Like banners in the sky. I

There came a burst of thunder sound—|
The boy-oh! where was he? |
Ask of the winds that far around |

With fragments strew'd the sea!|

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, |
That well had borne their part—|
But the noblest thing that perish'd there,
Was that young faithful heart. I


Meanwhile the adversary of God and man, |
Satan, with thoughts inflam'd of highest design, |
Puts on swift wings, and towards the gates of Hell |
Explores his solitary flight: sometimes

He scours the right hand coast, | sometimes the left; |
Now shaves with level wing the deep, then soars
Up to the fiery concave | towering high. I

As when far off at sea a fleet descried |
Hangs in the clouds, by equinoctial winds |
Close sailing from Bengala, or the isles
Of Ternate and Tidore, whence merchants bring
Their spicy drugs; they, on the trading flood, |
Through the wide Ethiopian to the Cape,

Ply, stemming nightly toward the pole: | so seem'd
Far off the flying fiend. |

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