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. RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, And forth, in banded pomp and pride, They swore their banners broad should gleam, And sooth they swore-the sun arose, Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil 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, In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, 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, And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. « O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying! And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, 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, All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, Dark green was the spot mid the brown mountain heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming; JOCK OF HAZELDEAN. 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? Sae comely to be seen »>- « Now let this wilful grief be done, His sword in battle keen »>— « A chain o' gold ye shall not lack, Shall ride our forest queen »>— The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide, She's o'er the border, and awa' LULLABY OF AN INFANT CHIEF. 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, 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. O ho ro, i ri ri, gadil gu lo, O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows, 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. Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page, and groom, Tenant and master. Fast they come, fast they come; Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, 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; 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, I would not wed the Earlie's son,>> << A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke, «The swan,» she said, « the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest; The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn, Still in the water-lily's shade Her wonted nest the wild-swan made, I will never go with him.. 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, «Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not Though devoted I go-to return again never! << Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN." ON Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 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, 'Tis blithe along the midnight tide, 'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale, 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. |