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Combined by honour's sacred tie, Our word is, Laws and Liberty! March forward, one and all!

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. Ain-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.

THE Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, Baron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

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RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.

They swore their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.

And sooth they swore-the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd-the trampled green
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been:
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood!

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.

THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. AIR-Dafydd y Garreg-wen.'

THERE is a tradition that Dafydd y Garreg-wen, a famous Welsh Bard, being on his death-bed, called for

David of the white rock.

his harp, and composed the sweet melancholy air to which these verses are united, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.

DINAS EMLINN, lament, for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die;
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.
Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?
And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?
Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene,
To join the din choir of the bards who have been;
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades,
Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids!
And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,
Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE MAID OF TORO.

O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,

All as a fair maiden, bewilder'd in sorrow,

Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. « O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending; Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry; Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die !>>

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread
rattle,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

« O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low!
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Ilenry is lying;
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.»>-
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair:

And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,
For ever he set to the brave and the fair.

HELLVELLYN.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and
wide;

All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had
died.

Dark green was the spot mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandon'd to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou

start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, oh! was it meet, that,-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,—
Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.
AIR-A Border Melody.

The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others were written for Mr Campbell's Albyn's Anthology.

« WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie?
Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be seen »>-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

« Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen »>—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

« A chain o' gold ye shall not lack,
Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a',

Shall ride our forest queen »>—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Пazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide,
The tapers glimmer'd fair;
The priest and bridegroom wait the bride,
And dame and knight are there.
They sought her both by bower and ha',
The ladie was not seen!

She's o'er the border, and awa'
Wi Jock of Hazeldean.

LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF.
Ain-Gadil gu lo.'

O HUSH thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight; Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright; In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming; They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee. The woods and the gleas, from the towers which we see,

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,.
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Bellvellyn and Catchedicam.

O ho ro, i ri ri, gadil gu lo,
O lo ro, i ri ri, etc.

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose;
Their bows would be bended, their blades would be red,
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

Sleep on till day. These words, adapted to a melody some what different from the original, are sung in my friend Mr Terry's drama of Guy Mannering.

O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,

When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.
Written for Albyn's Anthology.
AIR-Piobair of Dhonuil Deidh

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,
Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,
Knell for the onset!

THIS is a very ancient pibroch belonging to the Clan Mac-Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, launched from the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior to his own. The words of the set theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic :

Piobaireachd Dhoguil, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Daidb, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dridh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.

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NORA'S VOW.

Written for Albyn's Anthology.

AIR-Cha teid mis a chaoidh.'

In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red Earl's son until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lake -until one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mindexcept the vehemence of her protestation.

HEAR What Highland Nora said:

<< The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son,>>

<< A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke,
« Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.>>

«The swan,» she said, « the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest;

The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.»>

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made,
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

I will never go with him..

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MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

AIR-Cha till mi tuille.

MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, « Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon,» « I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!» The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.

MACLEOD's wizard flag from the gray castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, « Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming,
Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming;
Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!

«Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell!-and for ever-
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never!
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me;
But

my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not
shiver,

Though devoted I go-to return again never!

<< Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land to the shores, whence unwilling we sever,
Return-return-return-shall we never,

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille!
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon!»

ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN."

ON Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,
T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noon-day solitude;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,

"T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,

When to the hook the salmon springs, And the line whistles through the rings;

We return no more.

2 Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been engaged with some friends.

The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like genii, arm'd with fiery spears.

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL. AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,— Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuncless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill;

And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Alwyn, the seat of the Lord Somerville, now, alas! untenanted,

by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the author's nearest neighbour and intimate friend.

Ashestie, the poet's residence at that time.

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