Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

FROM THE GAELIC.

THIS song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glories of the chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!-
'T was valiant Lachlan gave the word;
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:

He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And launch'd them on the main.

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil;

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound
Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

The startled naiads from the shade
With broken arms withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,

The glory of Saint-Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,
The echoes of Saint-Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer-dew,
While through the moonless air they float,
Prolong'd from fair Saint-Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet With princes at Saint-Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,
The circle round her drew,
Than ours, when gather'd round to hear
Our songstress at Saint-Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint-Cloud. PARIS, Sept. 5, 1815.

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

THE original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

SAINT-CLOUD.

SOFT spread the southern summer night Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light The terrace of Saint-Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd, Like breath of lover true, Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint-Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Hussar,
That garrison Saint-Cloud.

1 i, e. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

Ir was Dunois, the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons

Before Saint Mary's shrine:

<«< And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,» Was still the soldier's prayer,

<< That I may prove the bravest knight, And love the fairest fair.>>

His oath of honour on the shrine
He graved it with his sword,
And follow'd to the Holy Land
The banner of his lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow,

His war-cry fill'd the air,

«Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair.>>

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 plai
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 t
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smi
The wanderer, while the vision warms his
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd
And sleep they in the poet's gifted m
Oh no! for she, within whose migh
Each tyrant passion shows his wo
Has felt the wizard influence the
And to your own traditions tun
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'
By Mull's dark coast has hear
The plaided boatman, restin
Points to the fatal rock ami
Of whitening waves, and t
Our humble stage shall off
Proudly preferr'd, that fir
Scenes glowing from he
More proudly yet, shoul
The filial token of a da

Basis of the winter may mingle with rain, plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, gh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain; by die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim, ar jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness, Thile they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

ugh anxious and timeless his life was expended, la toils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended, To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; The storms he endured in our Britain's December, The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,

in her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd!
Fill WELLINGTON'S cup till it beam like his glory,

Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GREME;

A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story, And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

SONG,

ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF

BUCCLEUCH,

At a great Foot-ball Match on Carterhaugh.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.

4 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 sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR.

PERCY, or Percival Rede, of Trochend, in Ridesdale, Northumberland, is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman and a soldier. He was, upon two occasions, singularly unfortunate: once when an arrow, which he had discharged at a deer, killed his celebrated do 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.

Up 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 e'er 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-
«The band that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine?

They owed the conquest to his arm,

And then his liege-lord said,

«The heart that has for honour beat, By bliss must be repaid,My daughter Isabel and thou

Shall be a wedded pair,

For thou art bravest of the brave,
She fairest of the fair.»>

And then they bound the holy knot
Before Saint Mary's shrine,

That makes a paradise on earth,

If hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright,

That were in chapel there,

Cried, « Honour'd be the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair!»>

Though thus he dealt in petty treason, He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF
SCOTLAND.

O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,
When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain,
And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,
PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign!
Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit,
To take for his country the safety of shame;
O then in her triumph remember his merit,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim,
And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Sox;
By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master, Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,
The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid,
To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure,
The wisdom that planu'd, and the zeal that obey'd!
Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,
Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GRAME;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

SONG,

ON THE LIFTING OF THE BANNER OF THE HOUSE OF

BUCCLEUCH,

At a great Foot-bail Match on Carterlaugh.

FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons extending,
Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;
And each forester blithe, from his mountain descending,
Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.