Then William shriek'd; the hand he touch'd
Was cold and damp and dead!

He felt young Edmund in his arms

A heavier weight than lead.

The boat sunk down, the murderer sunk
Beneath the avenging stream;

He rose, he scream'd, no human ear
Heard William's drowning scream.

REPLY OF ROB ROY MACGREGOR TO MR. OSBALDISTONE.

You speak like a boy-like a boy, who thinks the old gnarled oak can be twisted as easily as the young sapling. Can I forget that I have been branded as an outlaw, stigmatized as a traitor, a price set on my head as if I had been a wolf, my family treated as the dam and cubs of a hill-fox, who all may torment, vilify, degrade, and insult ;the very name which came to me from a long and noble line of martial ancestors, denounced, as if it were a spell to conjure up the devil with ?

And they shall find that the name they have dared to proscribe —that the name of Mac Gregor is a spell to raise the wild devil withal. They shall hear of my vengeance, that would scorn to listen to the story of my wrongs. The miserable Highland drover, bankrupt, barefooted, stripped of all, dishonoured and hunted down, because the avarice of others grasped at more than that poor all could pay, shall burst on them in an awful change. They that scoffed at the grovelling worm, and trod upon him, may cry and howl when they see the stoop of the flying and fiery-mouthed dragon. But why do I speak of all this ?-only ye may opine it frets my patience to be hunted like an otter, or a seal, as a salmon upon the shallows, and that by my very friends and neighbours and to have as many sword-cuts made, and pistols flashed at me, as I had this day in the ford of Avondow, would try a saint's temper, much more a Highlander's, who are not famous for that good gift, as you may have heard.-But one thing bides me of what Nichol said. I'm vexed when I think of Robert and Hamish living their father's life. But let us say no more of this.— * * *

You must think hardly of us, and it is not natural that it should be otherwise. But remember, at least, we have not been unprovoked :--we are a rude and an ignorant, and it may be, a violent and passionate, but we are not a cruel people. The land might be at peace and in law for us, did they allow us to enjoy the blessings

N

of peaceful law. But we have been a persecuted people; and if persecution maketh wise men mad, what must it do to men like us, living as our fathers did a thousand years since, and possessing scarce more lights than they did? Can we view their bloody edicts against us-their hanging, heading, hounding, and hunting down an ancient and honourable name-as deserving better treatment than that which enemies give to enemies?-Here I stand-have been in twenty frays, and never hurt man but when I was in hot blood !-and yet they would betray me and hang me, like a masterless dog, at the gate of any great man that has an ill will at me.

You are a kind hearted and an honourable youth, and understand, doubtless, that which is due to the feelings of a man of honour. But the heather that I have trod upon when living must bloom over me when I am dead-my heart would sink, and my arm would shrink and wither, like fern in the frost, were I to lose sight of my native hills; nor has the world a scene that would console me for the loss of the rocks and cairns, wild as they are, that you see around us. And Helen-what would become of her, were I to leave her, the subject of new insult and atrocity? or how could she bear to be removed from these scenes, where the remembrance of her wrongs is aye sweetened by the recollection of her revenge? I was once so hard put at by my great enemy, as I may well call him, that I was forced e'en to give way to the tide, and removed myself, and my people, and my family from our dwellings in our native land, and to withdraw for a time into Mac Callummore's country,-and Helen made a lament on our departure, as well as Mac Rimmon himself could have framed it; and so piteously sad and woesome, that our hearts almost brake as we listened to her :-it was like the wailing of one for the mother that bore him-and I would not have the same touch of the heart-break again, no, not to have all the lands that were ever owned by Mac Gregor.

........

THE SOLDIER'S RETURN.

My untried muse shall no high tone assume,
Nor sustain arms,-farewell my cap and plume!
Brief be my verse, a task within my power,

I tell my feelings in one happy hour.

But what an hour was that, when from the main

I reach'd my native village once again;

A glorious harvest fill'd my eager sight,

Half shock'd, half waving in a field of light.

On that poor cottage roof where I was born,
The sun looked down, as in life's early morn.
I gaz'd around, but not a soul appeared!
I listen'd on the threshold-nothing heard!
I call'd my father thrice, but no one came !
It was not fear, or grief, that shook my frame,
But an o'erpowering sense of peace and home;
'Of toils gone by, perhaps of joys to come.
The door invitingly stood open wide,

I shook my dust, and set my staff aside.
How sweet it was to breathe that cooler air,
And take possession of my father's chair!
Beneath my elbow, on the solid frame,
Appear'd the rough initials of my name,
Cut forty years before! the same old clock
Struck the same lull, and gave my heart a shock
I never can forget; a short breeze sprung,
And while a sigh was trembling on my tongue,
Caught the old dangling Almanacks behind,
And up they flew, like banners in the wind;
Then gently, singly, down and down they went,
And told of twenty years that I had spent
Far from my native land. That instant came
A robin on the threshold-tho' so tame,
At first he look'd distrustful-almost shy,
And cast on me his coal-black steadfast eye,
Seeming to say (past friendship to renew)
Ah, ah! old worn out soldier is it you?'
Through the room ranged the imprison'd humble bee,
And boom'd, and bounced, and struggled to be free;
Dashing against the panes with sullen roar,
That threw their diamond sunlight on the floor-
The floor clean sanded, where my fancy strayed,

O'er undulating waves the broom had made,
Reminding me of those of hideous forms,

That met us as we passed the Cape of Storms,

Where high and low they break, and peace comes never,

They roll, and foam, and roll, and foam for ever.

But here was peace, that peace which home can yield,

The bee, the partridge, and the field,

And striking clock, were all at once become
The substitutes for trumpet, fife and drum.
While thus I mused, still gazing, gazing still,
On beds of moss that spread the window sill ;
'Twas many years since my eyes had seen
Any thing so lovely, fresh, and green;
I guess'd some infant had placed it there,
And prized its hue most exquisite and rare!
Feelings on feelings, mingling, doubling rose,
My heart felt every thing but calm repose;

I could not reckon moments, hours, nor years,
But rose at once, and burst out into tears;
Then, like a fool confused, sat down again,
And thought upon the past with shame and pain.
I raved at war, and all its horrid cost,

And glory's quagmire, where the brave are lost :
On carnage, fire, and plunder long I mus'd,
And curs'd the murdering weapons I had used!
Two shadows now I saw, two voices heard,
One bespoke age, and one a child appear'd;
In stepp'd my father with convulsive start,
And in an instant clasp'd me to his heart.
Close by him stood a little blue-ey'd maid,
And, stooping to the child, the old man said,
Come hither, Nancy, kiss me once again,
This is your uncle Charles, come from Spain.'
The child approach'd, and with her fingers light,
Strok'd my old eyes, almost deprived of sight.
But why thus spin my tale, thus tedious be,
Happy old soldier-what's the world to me?

"MY NEW PITTAYATEES!"

[Enter Katty, with a gray cloak, a dirty cap, and a black eye; a sieve of potaties on her head, and a "thrifle o' sper'ts" in it. Katty meanders down Patrick-street.]

Katty. My new Pittayatees !-My-a-new Pittayatees!— My new"

[Meeting a friend.]

Sally, darlin', is that you?

Sally. Throth its myself; and what's the matter wid you, Katty?

Kat. 'Deed my heart's bruk cryin'-New pittayatees— cryin' afther that vagabone.

Sal. Is it Mike?

Kat. Throth its himself indeed.

Sal. And what is it he done?

Kat. Och he ruined me with his

-New pittayatecɛ—

with his goings-an, the owld thing, my dearSal. Throwin' up his little finger, I suppose.*

Kat. Yis, my darlint; he kem home th' other night, blazin' blind dhrunk, cryin' out- -Newpittay-a-tees-roarin' and bawlin', that you'd think he'd rise the roof aff o' the house.

"Bad look attind you; bad cess to you, you pot wallopin' *Getting drunk,

varmint," says he, (maynin' me, if you plaze), “wait till I ketch you, you sthrap, and its I'll give you your fill iv". New pittayatees—“ your fill iv a lickin', if ever you got it,” says lie.

So with that I knew the villain was mulvathered ;* let alone the heavy fut o' the miscrayint an the stairs, that a child might know he was done for My new pittayatees-Throth he was

done to a turn, like a mutton kidney.

Sal. Musha! God help you, Katty.
Kat. Oh, wait till you hear the ind o' my-

-New pittayatees

-o' my throubles, and it's then you'll open your eyes-My new pittayatees.

Sal. Oh, bud I pity you.

Kat. Oh wait, wait, my jewel, wait till you hear what became o'— My new pittayatees-wait till I tell you the ind iv it. Where did I lave off? Oh aye, at the stairs.

Well, as he was comin' up stairs, (knowin' how it 'id be,) I thought it best to take care o' my- New pittayatees-to take care o' myself; so with that, I put the bowit on the door, betune me and danger, and kep' listenin' at the key-hole; and sure enongh, what should I hear, but-New pittayateesbut the vagabone gropin' his way round the cruked turn in the stair, and tumblin' afther into the hole in the flure an the landin' ; and whin he come to himself he gev a thunderin' thump at the door. "Who's there," says I; says he-New pittayatees" let me in," says he, you vagabone," (swarein' by what I wouldn't mintion,) "or by this and that, I'll massacray you," says he, "within an inch o'- -New pittayatees—within

an inch o' your life," says he.

"Mikee, darlint," says I, sootherin' him.

Sal. Why would you call sitch a 'tarnal vagabone, darlint. Kat. My jew'l, didn't I tell you I thought it best to soother him with a- -New pittayatee—with a tindher word: so says I," Mikee, you villain, you're disguised," says I, "you're disguised, dear."

"You lie," says he, "you impudent sthrap, I'm not disguised; but, if I'm disguised itself," says he, "I'll make you know the differ," says he.

Oh! I thought the life id lave me, when I heerd him say the word; and with that I put my hand an -My new pittayatees-an the latch o' the door, to purvint it from slippin'; and he ups and he gives a wicked kick at the door, and says he, "If you don't let me in this minit," says he, "I'll be the death o' your New pittayatees-o' yourself and your dirty

* Intoxicated.