2

for her dower, the foundation of the house of Home was thereby laid.1 Waldeve died in 1182, leaving, by Alina his countess, who died in 1179, two sons, Patrick fifth Earl of Dunbar, and Constantine, mentioned with his brother in a deed of gift to the monastery of Coldingham.3

NOTE.-By an unaccountable oversight this paper was omitted, and the paper which should have succeeded it, printed, (in No. 4.) The conclusion of this, therefore, necessarily precedes page 210 of this series, to make the events narrated continuous in order and date.

SUMMER.

BY A LADY.

'TIS Britain's summer, watch the clouds
High rolling over-head;

No snowy pall the prospect shrouds

Where fairy landscapes spread.

The corn on every upland rears,
And waves a fruitful sea;

But soon shall fall the golden ears,
And gleaners scour the lea.
Some poppies still the wheat invade,
And wild flowers nestle in the shade.

'Tis glorious summer, and the sun
Burns with oppressive heat;
The bees still labour, till the moon
The evening hours shall cheat.
The swarthy rustics mow the hay,
The leas are clover spread;

How sweet must be the summer day

To those who toil for bread,

While twilight sends each tired one home,
Through green lanes laden with perfume!

Who envies not the summer hours,

The peasant's humble shed,

The little garden and its flowers,
His hard, but dreamless bed;
His simple fare-the milk or cheese,
The oat-bread and the ale;

But more than all, a mind at ease,

Which wants nor pains assail?

Who, when long winter nights draw on,
Can boast of gain in summer won!

Two fine specimens of the honey buzzard (Falco aspivourus) were shot a few days ago-one by Mr Furneis, of Coxhoe; and the other by Mr Farthing, of Croxdale Mill. They are male and female, and are now in the possession of Mr W. Proctor, of Durham, for preservation. These birds are only occasional visitors in this locality, it being ten or twelve years since the last one was seen.

1 Chron. Mailros. p. 73; Chal. Caledonia, ii. p. 240.

2 Caledonia, ii. p. 240; Wood's Doug. Peerage, i. 168.

3 Original Writs of Coldingham, p. 117, D; Wood's Doug. Peer. i. p. 168.

X

ORNITHOLOGY.

RARE VISITORS.

FINE young specimen of the "Gyr Falcon” was captured a few days ago on a proud wing of the Grampians, over-looking the Lake of Menteith.

This species of the falcon is very rarely to be met Iwith in Menteith or the south of Scotland.

It is a native of Iceland, but inhabits the north coasts, more particularly some of the northern islands: it is also found among the wilds of Argyleshire.

The Gyr is by far the largest of the falcon tribe, approaching nearly to the magnitude of the eagle, and being of a bold and fierce character, will defend himself against the king of birds.

His food consists of the larger kinds of game, and he rejoices in attacking the heron, the crane, or the stork. His mode of attack is to out-soar his prey, and then to descend with the rapidity of lightning upon it, and striking his victim a tremendous blow on the back, sends it dead to the earth.

The female builds her eyry on the most wild and inaccessible rocks, and, according to Goldsmith, the number and colour of the eggs remain a mystery.

A young Highland lad, however, from the north of Scotland, saw the one now under notice, and informed the writer that he had endeavoured-but endeavoured in vain—to reach one of their nests, but said that a young companion, more adventurous than he, had once succeeded in gaining one of the nests, and that the eggs were of a yellowish colour.

The bird now alluded to was caught by Mr James Weir, keeper at Rednoch, and kindly presented by him to Mr P. Dun, Port of Monteith, by whom it is now being tamed.

Another rare visitor was shot on the shores of the Lake of Menteith a few days ago—namely, the "Great Northern Diver." This bird was of the speckled species, and measured six feet across the wings.

A number of our finest native birds are fast disappearing from the Border Highlands, and many kinds will soon be extinct. Only a few years ago, the osprey built her nest on the shores of the lake, and would have continued to do so had not some miscreant robbed her of her eggs, after which she disappeared, to return no more.

P. D.

THE EMMERLINE BRIDE.

FULL few have not heard of the baron so bold,
Who won near the border of Atterstane wold,
Whose daughter was lovely and pure as the light,
And dearly beloved of the Emmerline knight.

But if he was brave as the lady was good,
The baron I trow was as powerful as proud,
And he swore he should rue should he ever begin,
The heart and the hand of his daughter to win.

For alone she should wed with the young Lord Halee,
And the bridal was set, yet no bridal could be,
For the lady had pined still from day unto day,
Till worn was her form, and her cheek like the clay.

Then up spoke the baron, and proudly spoke he,
I trow 'tis full time that this bridal should be,

For the health of our daughter will never increase,
Till her hopes from the aim that is hopeless shall cease.
The wanter will seek what nae winner will send,
And the bow e'en must break if the bow will not bend,
But the Lord of Halee will all matters make right,
When her heart has forgotten the Emmerline knight.

Again, then, the day of the bridal was set,
And many were merry, for many had met,
Though dismay soon began all the mirth to o'erpower,
When the bride could be found not in hall or in bower.

Then mutter'd there one to the baron so bold

It pleased ye to welcome the harper so old,

And my lady might trow that in this ye were right,

If she knew it was none but the Emmerline knight.

And but yester eve when all lonesome and late,

There were two pass'd away through the tower's secret gate,
And though one was dark and the other not bright,
It well might be she and the Emmerline knight.
Then up rose the baron with wrath on his cheek-
My daughter I'll find, though the wide world I seek;
And she shall be taught what her falsehood and flight
Brings down on the head of her Emmerline knight.
Then mounted were maisters, and muster'd were men,
And they wended the woodland, the mountain, and glen,
In haste and in fury till steeds were o'er-toil'd,
For the wrath of the baron was stormy and wild.

But vainly they sped, and as vainly sped they

Who late yester eve from the gate pass'd away,
For though the leal knight had full fitly prepared

The steeds that could bear and the arms that could guard;
Yet, when in yon chapel the rite had been o'er,
A wan bride was she to his halls that he bore;
For if nature be wrong'd in the race that is run,
The prize will be lost that the world calleth won.
Too long sore oppress'd, and too long deeply grieved,
The form was outworn ere the heart was relieved;
And ere the day's dawning had thrice risen bright,
The grave got the bride of the Emmerline knight.

HENRY SCOTT RIDDELL.

MOONLIGHT REMINISCENCES.

How sweet this hour for contemplative thought!
Delightful stillness lingers o'er the scene;
Aerial sounds, on drowsy zephyrs brought,

Lull the hush'd groves where stormy winds have been.

In joyous strength Phoebus his course has run ;
Far in the west shines Cynthia's crescent bright;
And brilliant Day, his golden labours done,
Resigns the empire of the world to Night.
Now busy Nature rests her wearied powers;
A thousand minstrels chant her lullaby,
In mimic music through the midnight hours—
The happy stream sings to the nodding tree.
Dull is the soul, bereft of fancy's fire,

That to no soaring harmony is led;

Even the rude corncrake joins the enraptured choir,
In rural measures from his clover bed.

On eager wing I feel my fancy climb

Up to the perfumed galleries of the night,
And o'er the shadowy landscape raised sublime,
Hail Wardlaw glimmering in the fitful light.

With beating heart the hallow'd pile I view ;
No kingly palace rears a form so fair;

Its walls enclose the innocent and true

What beauty owns and love desires is there.

Sweet birds that lift your voices clear and strong,
With untaught sweetness from these shady trees,
Teach me, like you, to pour a tide of song
In wooing numbers on the odorous breeze.

One tender wish I'll whisper in her ear-
One prayer I'll pray to bless her airy dreams,
And watch in fancy by her pillow near,
Till the first ray of orient morning gleams.

"Let slaves of formal fashion ride,
With pomp and learning by their side;
Array'd in all the imposing dress
Of pedantry and stateliness;

While crowds behold the glittering line,
And think the pageantry divine-
No worshipper of mummery,

Such hollow joys are naught to me.

But place me by Adder's margin green,

Where Bessie's sprightly step is seen,

Where her fair hand plucks the violet meek,

And fortunate zephyrs kiss her cheek,

Love to play o'er lips so rare

And lose themselves in her dark-brown hair—

There, far from Fortune's fickle smile,

I'll envious Time's fleet hours beguile;

In life's rough journey I'll find a rest
From all my cares on her gentle breast;
For ever kept by her hazel eye
In love's delicious ecstacy;

My fondest study, Bessie's charms;
Her heart my all, my home her arms.”

But see, Aurora drives the gloom away;

Night's curtain drawn brings Tweed's fair vale to view,

And rosy tints that pioneer the day,

Stream up the heavens above the Cheviots blue.

Retires the Muse, her amorous vigils o'er,

The warbling woods welcome returning day;

But as I go, my feelings linger more,

Sweet Wardlaw, with thy towers and turrets gray.

D. N. L. C.

OAKWOOD TOWER.*

PERCH'D on a sylvan bank, Oakwood Tower rises
Roofless and hoar, and each blast still despises.
Fronting the bitter north, naked and coldly,
Facing the wrath of the hurricane boldly.
O'er its recesses and turrets denuded,

Time through the long lapse of ages has brooded,
And with a delicate sorrow is strewing

Lichens and weeds through the mouldering ruin.
Haunt of the raven, the magpie, and lizard,
Ling'ring decay mocks the hall of the wizard.†
In Salamanca his learning was nursed,
Wonderful alchemy, magic accursed;

Startled the land with his learning astounding;
Awing the vulgar, the learned confounding;
Solved the dark problem, wove spell necromantic,
Aided by knowledge transmuted and antic.
Here, in the ages of valour and foray,
Flourish'd the chief in his murderous glory;
Sounded his horn in the silence of midnight,
By the pale moonshine or meteor red light,
And, if success mark'd his errand of plunder,
Gather'd his booty the battlement under.

A Large Trout.-A trout, of the following extraordinary size and weight, was killed recently in a quarry hole, near Morpeth, by Stephen Macmoran, while trolling with minnow. The trout was two feet five inches in length, fourteen inches in girth, and weighed 81b. 7oz. The place in which it was captured is the site of a quarry, opened in 1846, for stone to construct the North-Eastern Railway viaduct across the Wansbeck, at the Chapel Wood, below Morpeth, and it is a few hundred yards above the viaduct, and about 150 yards from the river. After the stone was taken out, the quarry was abandoned, and gradually filled with water from some neighbouring springs of very low temperature. The pond thus formed is about 200 feet by 60 feet, and in some parts about 20 feet deep. About seven years ago, Mr Gibb, who occupies a mill adjoining, put several small trout, taken out of the Wansbeck, into the quarry hole, and the trout in question appears to have, in the interval, attained the above dimensions. For the last two years the trout just caught was known to be in the hole, and to be of great size, and numerous attempts have been made, and every kind of device known to anglers tried, to capture him,

but, until now, without success. Trouts of 3lb. have occasionally been captured

in the Wansbeck, above and below the town of Morpeth, and perhaps, at rare intervals, up to 4lb., but a genuine river trout, of the extraordinary size above mentioned, has never been heard of in the Wansbeck or in Northumberland.

*From an unpublished poem, styled "Ettrick Forest," by A. Paterson, of Selkirk, to which we may refer again. † Michael Scott.