: and it must be by her woven, and also wrought with the needle.
In the breast, or forepart thereof, must be made with needle work, two
heads; on the head, at the right side, must be a hat and a long beard;
the left head must have on a crown, and it must be so horrible that it
maie resemble Belzebub; and on each side of the wastcote must be made a
crosse."--SCOTT'S _Discoverie of Witchcraft,_ p. 231.

It would be now no difficult matter to bring down our popular poetry,
connected with history, to the year 1745. But almost all the party
ballads of that period have been already printed, and ably illustrated
by Mr Ritson.

END OF HISTORICAL BALLADS.

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORDER.

PART SECOND.

_ROMANTIC BALLADS._

SCOTTISH MUSIC, AN ODE,

BY J. LEYDEN.

TO IANTHE.

Again, sweet syren, breathe again
That deep, pathetic, powerful strain;
Whose melting tones, of tender woe,
Fall soft as evening's summer dew,
That bathes the pinks and harebells blue,
Which in the vales of Tiviot blow.

Such was the song that soothed to rest.
Far in the green isle of the west,
The Celtic warrior's parted shade;
Such are the lonely sounds that sweep
O'er the blue bosom of the deep,
Where ship-wrecked mariners are laid.

Ah! sure, as Hindu legends tell,
When music's tones the bosom swell,
The scenes of former life return;
Ere, sunk beneath the morning star,
We left our parent climes afar,
Immured in mortal forms to mourn.

Or if, as ancient sages ween,
Departed spirits, half-unseen,
Can mingle with the mortal throng;
'Tis when from heart to heart we roll
The deep-toned music of the soul,
That warbles in our Scottish song.

I hear, I hear, with awful dread,
The plaintive music of the dead;
They leave the amber fields of day:
Soft as the cadence of the wave,
That murmurs round the mermaid's grave,
They mingle in the magic lay.

Sweet syren, breathe the powerful strain!
_Lochroyan's Damsel_[A] sails the main;
The chrystal tower enchanted see!
"Now break," she cries, "ye fairy charms!"
As round she sails with fond alarms,
"Now break, and set my true love free!"

Lord Barnard is to greenwood gone,
Where fair _Gil Morrice_ sits alone,
And careless combs his yellow hair;
Ah! mourn the youth, untimely slain!
The meanest of Lord Barnard's train
The hunter's mangled head must bear.