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But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, We list the legends of our native land, Link'd as they come with every tender tie, Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Acadia's winter-fetter'd soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten’d eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild waving, and the water's swell : Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old, The infant group that hush'd their sports the while, And the dear maid who listen’d with a smile. The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd, that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a daughter's love!

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, high CHIEF OF KINTAIL,

From the GAELIC.

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREwell to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;
To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew, May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

* Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

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choaus. Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, she has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

When the southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of Buccleugh. Then up with the Banner, etc.

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.
Then up with the Banner, etc.

We forget each contention of civil dissension,
And hail like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and CAR;

And Ellior and Paingle in pastime shall mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with the Banner, etc. t

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,
And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,
There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather,
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.
Then up with the Banner, etc.

And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure
To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun,
And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.
Then up with the Banner, etc.

May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and Landward, From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook; And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buccleugh and his standard, For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke!

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, she has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; in port we'll attend her, in battle defend her, | With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR.

Prhcy, or Percival Rede, of Trochend, in Ridesdale, Northumberland, is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman and a soldier. He was, upon two occasions, sincularly unfortunate: once when an arrow, which he had discharged at a deer, killed his celebrated dot; Keeldar; and again when, being on a hunting party, he was betrayed into the hands of a clan called Crossar, by whom he was murdered. Mr Cooper's painting of the first of these incidents suggested the following stanzas,

Ur rose the sun o'er moor and meed; Up with the sun rose Percy Rede; Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed, Career'd along the lea:

The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,

As if to match the gamesome hound;

His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day:
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras ne'er was stauncher steed,
A peerless archer Percy Rede;
And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd their joys and woes,
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,
By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,
Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,
The signs the hunters know:
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears,
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears;
The restless palfrey paws and rears;
The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot!—halloo! halloo!
Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue;
But woe the shaft that erring flew—
That eer it left the string!
And ill betide the faithless yew!
The stag bounds scatheless o'er the dew,
And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true
Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound"—he dies, he dies,
Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes,
Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,
Without a moan or quiver;
Now day may break and bugle sound,
And whoop and hollow ring around,
And o'er his couch the stag may bound,
But Keeldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death—but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief, and wonder, mix'd with fear;
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite bending low,

In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay
In unreproachful accents say—
a The hand that took my life away,

Dear master, was it thine?

• And if it be, the shaft be bless'd,
Which sure some erring aim address'd,
Since in your service prized, caress'd,
I in your service die:
And you may have a fleeter hound
To match the dun deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I.”

And to his last stout Percy rued
The fatal chance; for, when he stood
'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,
And fell amid the fray,
E’en with his dying voice he cried,
• Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Yon treacherous ambush had been spied—
I had not died to-day!”

Remembrance of the erring bow
Long since had join'd the tides which flow,
Conveying human bliss and woe
Down dark Oblivion's river;
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest,
And snatch his spoils from Lethe's breast,
And, in her Cooper's colours drest,
The scene shall live for ever.

FAREWELL ADDRESS,

spoken AT THE Edixpungh The ATRE, by Mas HENRY siddox's, APaul 1830.

The curtain drops—the mimic scene is past— One word remains, the saddest and the last. A word which oft in careless mood we say, When parting friends have passed a social day; As oft pronounced in agony of heart, When friends must sever or when lovers part: Or o'er the dying couch in whispers spoken, When the last tender thread is all but broken, When all that ear can list or tongue can tell Are the faint mournful accents, fare-ye-well! Yet ere we part—and even now a tear Bedims my eye to think our parting near— Fain would I speak how deeply in my breast Will the remembrance of your kindness rest— Fain would I tell—but words are cold and weak; It is the heart—the heart alone can speak. The wanderer may rejoice to view once more, The smiling aspect of her native shore, Yet oft in mingled dreams of joy and pain She 'd think she sees this beauteous land again; And then, as now, will fond affection trace, The kindness that endeard her dwelling place. Now, then, it must be said, though from my heart The mournful accents scarcely will depart,

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Lingering, as if they fear'd to break some spell— It must be utter d!—friends, kind friends, farewell: One suit remains: you will not scorn to hear, The last my lips shall falter on your ear; When I am far, my patrons, oh! be kind To the dear relative I leave behind. He is your own, and like yourselves may claim A Scottish origin—a Scottish name. His opening talents, let the truth be told, A sister in a brother's cause is bold— Shall cater for your eve of leisure still With equal ardour, and improving skill. And though too oft the poor performer's lot Is but to bloom, to fade, and be forgot, Whene'er the mimic sceptre they resign— A gentler destiny, I feel, is mine; For, as the brother moves before your eyes, Some memory of the sister must arise; And in your hearts a kind remembrance dwell Of her who once again sighs forth farewell!

LINES IN THE ALBUM.

AT THE BELL-ROCK Lichthouse.

pharos loquitor.

Fan in the bosom of the deep,

O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep;

A ruddy gem of changeful light

Bound on the dusky brow of night;

The seaman bids my lustre hail,

And scorns to strike his timorous sail. July 30, 1814.

IMPROMPTU. To Monsieuta al-ExAndrae.

Or yore, in old England, it was not thought good To carry two visages under one hood;

What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenty,

That from under one hood you last night show'd us tweni. Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth, Are you handsome or ugly in age, or in youth Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse? Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? Each live thing did I ask? each dead implement too : A work-shop in your person—saw, chisel, and screw : Above all, are you one individual: I know You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co. But I think you 're a troop—an assemblage—a mobAnd that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job, And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse: Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.

EN ID.

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