Right where his charge had made a lane,

His valiant comrades burst,

With sword, and axe, and partizan,

And hack, and stab, and thrust.

The daunted Lion 'gan to whine,

And granted ground amain, The mountain Bull, he bent his brows, And gored his sides again.

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield,
At Sempach in the flight,

The cloister vaults at Konigsfield
Hold many an Austrian knight.

It was the Archduke Leopold,
So lordly would he ride,

But he came against the Switzer churls,
And they slew him in his pride.

The heifer said unto the bull,

<< And shall I not complain? There came a foreign nobleman To milk me on the plain.

<< One thrust of thine outrageous horn
Has gall'd the knight so sore,
That to the church-yard he is borne,
To range our glens no more.»>

An Austrian noble left the stour, And fast the flight 'gan take; And he arrived in luckless hour At Sempach on the lake.

He and his squire a fisher call'd (His name was Hans Von Rot), « For love, or meed, or charity,

Receive us in thy boat.>>

Their anxious call the fisher heard,
And, glad the meed to win,
His shallop to the shore he steer'd,
And took the flyers in.

And while against the tide and wind
Hans stoutly row'd his way,
The noble to his followers sign'd
He should the boatman slay.

The fisher's back was to them turn'd,
The squire his dagger drew,
Hans saw his shadow in the lake,
The boat he overthrew.

He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove,
He stunn'd them with his oar;
«Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs,
You'll ne'er stab boatman more.

«Two gilded fishes in the lake

This morning have I caught,

Their silver scales may much avail,

Their carrion flesh is naught.»

A pun on the URUS, or wild bull, which gives name to the can

ton of Uri.

THE original of these verses occurs in a collection of German popular songs, entitled Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807, published by Messrs Busching and Von der Hagen, both, and more especially the last, distinguished for their acquaintance with the ancient popular poetry and legendary history of Germany.

In the German editor's notice of the ballad, it is stated to have been extracted from a manuscript Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain to St Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears the date 1533; and the song is stated by the author to have been generally sung in the neighbourhood at that early period. Thomann, as quoted by the German editor, seems faithfully to have believed the event he narrates. He quotes tombstones and obituaries to prove the existence of the personages of the ballad, and discovers that there actually died on the 11th May, 1349, a Lady Von Neuffen, Countess of Marstetten, who was by birth of the house of Moringer. This lady he supposes to have been Moringer's daughter mentioned in the ballad. He quotes the same authority for the death of Berckhold Von Neuffen in the same year. The editors, on the whole, seem to embrace the opinion of Professor Smith, of Ulm, who, from the language of the ballad, ascribes its date to the 15th century.

The legend itself turns on an incident not peculiar to Germany, and which perhaps was not unlikely to hap pen in more instances than one, when crusaders abode long in the Holy Land, and their disconsolate dames received no tidings of their fate. A story very similar in circumstances, but without the miraculous machinery of Saint Thomas, is told of one of the ancient lords of Haigh-hall, in Lancashire, the patrimonial inheritance of the late Countess of Balcarras; and the particulars are represented on stained glass upon a window in that ancient manor-house.

I.

O, WILL you hear a knightly tale

Of old Bohemian day,

It was the noble Moringer

In wedlock bed he lay;

He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame,

That was as sweet as May,

And said, Now, lady of my heart,
Attend the words I say.

II.

«T is I have vow'd a pilgrimage

Unto a distant shrine,

And I must seek Saint Thomas-land,

And leave the land that 's mine; Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, So thou wilt pledge thy fay, That thou for my return wilt wait Seven twelvemonths and a day.»> III.

Then out and spoke that lady bright,

Sore troubled in her cheer,

« Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, What order takest thou here;

And who shall lead thy vassal band,
And hold thy lordly sway,
And be thy lady's guardian true
When thou art far away!»

IV.

Out spoke the noble Moringer,
« Of that have thou no care,
There's many a valiant gentleman
Of me holds living fair;

The trustiest shall rule my land,
My vassals and my state,

And be a guardian tried and true
To thee, my lovely mate.

V.

«< As Christian man, I needs must keep
The vow which I have plight;
When I am far in foreign land,
Remember thy true knight:

And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,
For vain were sorrow now,

But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Since God hath heard his vow.»
VI.

It was the noble Moringer

From bed he made him bowne, And met him there his chamberlain, With ewer and with gown: He flung the mantle on his back, 'T was furr'd with miniver, He dipp'd his hand in water cold, And bathed his forehead fair.

<< Now hear," he said, «Sir Chamberlain, True vassal art thou mine,

And such the trust that I repose

In that proved worth of thine,

For seven years shalt thou rule my towers,
And lead my vassal train,

And pledge thee for my lady's faith
Till I return again.»>

VIII.

The chamberlain was blunt and true,

And sturdily said he,

« Abide, my lord, and rule your own,
And take this rede from me;
That woman's faith 's a brittle trust-
Seven twelvemonths didst thou say?
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
Beyond the seventh fair day.»>
IX.

The noble baron turn'd him round,
His heart was full of care,
His gallant esquire stood him nigh,
He was Marstetten's heir;

To whom he spoke right anxiously,
<< Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust

When I am o'er the sea?

X.

«To watch and ward my castle strong,

And to protect my land,

And to the hunting or the host

To lead my vassal band;
And pledge thee for my lady's faith,
Till seven long years are gone,
And guard her as Our Lady dear
Was guarded by Saint John.»>

XI.

Marstetten's heir was kind and true,
But fiery, hot, and young,
And readily he answer made,

With too presumptuous tongue, « My noble lord, cast care away, And on your journey wend, And trust this charge to me until Your pilgrimage have end.

XII.

Rely upon my plighted faith,
Which shall be truly tried,

To guard your lands, and ward your towers,
And with your vassals ride;

And for your lovely lady's faith,

So virtuous and so dear,

I'll gage my head it knows no change,
Be absent thirty year.»>

XIII.

The noble Moringer took cheer

When thus he beard him speak, And doubt forsook his troubled brow, And sorrow left his cheek;

A long adieu he bids to all-
Hoists top-sails and away,
And wanders in Saint Thomas-land
Seven twelvemonths and a day.

XIV.

It was the noble Moringer

Within an orchard slept,

When on the baron's slumbering sense

A boding vision crept;

And whisper'd in his ear a voice,

«'T is time, Sir Knight, to wake, Thy lady and thine heritage

Another master take.

He leant upon his pilgrim staff,
And to the mill he drew;
So alter'd was his goodly form,
That none their master knew;
The baron to the miller said,

« Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be?»> XXI. The miller answer'd him again, « He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land

Did a new bridegroom chuse; Her husband died in distant land, Such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, He was a worthy lord.

XXII.

Of him I held the little mill Which wins me living free, God rest the baron in his grave,

He still was kind to me;

And when Saint Martin's tide comes round,

And millers take their toll,

The priest that prays for Moringer
Shall have both cope and stole.»>
XXIII.

It was the noble Moringer
To climb the hill began,

And stood before the bolted gate

A woe and weary man;

« Now help me, every saint in heaven,
That can compassion take,

To gain the entrance of my hall,
This woful match to break.»

XXIV.

His very knock it sounded sad,

His call was sad and slow,

For heart and head, and voice and hand, Were heavy all with woe;

And to the warder thus he spoke :
<< Friend, to thy lady say,

A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land
Craves harbour for a day.

XXV.

« I've wander'd many a weary step,
My strength is well nigh done,
And if she turn me from her gate
I'll see no morrow's sun;

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,
A pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul.»
XXVI.

It was the stalwart warder then
He came his dame before,

« A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd
Stands at the castle-door;

And prays, for sweet Saint-Thomas' sake,
For harbour and for dole,
And for the sake of Moringer,
Thy noble husband's soul.»
XXVII.

The lady's gentle heart was moved,
« Do up the gate,» she said,

« And bid the wanderer welcome be To banquet and to bed;

And since he names my husband's name, So that he lists to stay,

These towers shall be his harbourage

A twelvemonth and a day.»

XXVII.

It was the stalwart warder then

Undid the portal broad,

It was the noble Moringer

That o'er the threshold strode;

<«< And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,» he said,

Though from a man of sin,

That the true lord stands here once more

His castle gate within.»>

«

Lay shalm and harp aside;

Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,

The castle's rule to hold;

And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold.»>
XXXII.

« Chill flows the lay of frozen age,»
'T was thus the pilgrim sung,
« Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,
Unlocks her heavy tongue;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,
At board as rich as thine,

And by my side as fair a bride,

With all her charms, was mine.
XXXIII.

<< But time traced furrows on my face,
And I grew silver-hair'd,

For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,
She left this brow and beard;
Once rich, but now a palmer poor,
I tread life's latest stage,

And mingle with your bridal mirth
The lay of frozen age.»

XXXVI.

Then to the cup-bearer he said,

«Do me one kindly deed,

And should my better days return, Full rich shall be thy meed; Bear back the golden cup again

To yonder bride so gay,

And crave her, of her courtesy,
To pledge the palmer gray.»

XXXVII.

The cup-bearer was courtly bred,
Nor was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again,
And bore it to the bride;

«Lady,» he said, « your reverend guest
Sends this, and bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy,
Thou pledge the palmer gray.»

XXXVIII.

The ring hath caught the lady's eye,
She views it close and near,

Then might you hear her shriek aloud,

« The Moringer is here!»>

Then might you see her start from seat,
While tears in torrents fell,

But whether 't was for joy or woe,
The ladies best can tell.

XXXIX.

But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven,
And every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer

Before the midnight hour;

And loud she utter'd vow on vow,

That never was there bride

That had like her preserved her troth, Or been so sorely tried.

XL.

«Yes, here I claim the praise,» she said,

«To constant matrons due,

Who keep the troth that they have plight

So stedfastly and true;

For count the term howe'er you will,
So that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out
When bells toll twelve to-night.»

XLI.

It was Marstetten then rose up,
His falchion there he drew,

He kneel'd before the Moringer,
And down his weapon threw;
My oath and knightly faith are broke,»
These were the words he said,

« Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword,

And take thy vassal's head.»

XLII.

The noble Moringer he smiled,
And then aloud did say,

« He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd
Seven twelvemonths and a day.
My daughter now hath fifteen years,
Fame speaks her sweet and fair,

I give her for the bride you lose,
And name her for my heir.

Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle,

Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,

The taking in of some rebellious lord,

Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be urged :
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we bold more dear than life,

The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome-

It must not be. -No! as they are our foes,

Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The bardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into
my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.

Bonduca.

THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate.n

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

And, foaming, gnaw the chain;—

O! had they mark'd the avenging call'
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,

Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,-

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer, or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call;

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the Continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is

half enslaved.