THE HIGHLANDER'S RETURN.

BY DELTA.

YOUNG Donald Bane, the gallant Celt, unto the wars had gone,
And left within her Highland home his plighted love alone;
Yet though the waves between them roll'd, on eastern Egypt's shore,
As he thought of Mhairi Macintyre, his love grew more and more.

It was a sullen morning when he breathed his last adieu,
And down the glen, above his men, the chieftain's banner flew ;
When bonnets waved aloft in air, and war-pipes scream'd aloud,
And the startled eagle left the cliff for shelter in the cloud.

Brave Donald Bane, at duty's call, hath sought a foreign strand,
And Donald Bane amid the slain hath stood with crimson brand;
And when the Alexandrian beach with Gallic blood was dyed,
Stream'd the tartan plaid of Donald Bane at Abercromby's side.

And he had seen the Pyramids, Grand Cairo, and the bay
Of Aboukir, whereon the fleet of gallant Nelson lay;
And he had seen the Turkish hosts in their barbarian pride,
And listen'd as from burial fields the midnight chacal cried.

Yes, many a sight had Donald seen in Syrian deserts lone,
To many a shore had Donald been, but none that match'd his own;
Amid the dates and pomegranates, the temples and the towers,
He thought of Albyn's cliffy huts, begirt with heather flowers.

So joyous beat the soldier's heart again from deck to see,
Rising from out the German wave, the island of the free;
And stately was his step when crowds, with plaudits from the main,
Welcom'd once more to Britain's shore its heroes back again!

Hush'd was the war-din that in wrath from coast to coast had roar'd,
And stay'd were slaughter's beagle fangs, and sheath'd the patriot sword,
When 'twas the pleasant summer time-arose in green again,
His own dear Highland mountains on the sight of Donald Bane.

Four years had lapsed in absence, wherein his steps had ranged
'Mid many a far and foreign scene, but his heart was unestranged;
And when he saw Argyle's red-deer once more from thicket flee,
And again he trod Glen-Etive's sod, a mountainer was he!

There stood the shieling of his love, beneath the sheltering trees,
Sweet sang the lark, the summer air was musical with bees;
And when he reach'd the wicket porch, old Stumah fawning fain,
First nosed him round, then licked his hand-'twas bliss to Donald Bane.
His heart throbb'd as he entered-no sound was stirring there,-
And in he went, and on he went, when behold his Mhairi fair!
Before her stood the household wheel unmurmurous, and the thread
Still in her fingers lay, as when its tenuous twine she led.

He stood and gazed, a man half crazed-before him she reclined
In half unkerchief'd loveliness-the idol of his mind;
Bland was the sleep of innocence, as to her dreams were given
Elysian walks with him she loved, amid the bowers of Heaven!

He gazed her beauties o'er and o'er-her shining auburn hair,

Her ivory brow, her rosebud mouth, her cheek carnation'd fair;
Her round white arms, her bosom's charms, that, with her breathing low,
Like swan-plumes on a ripply lake heaved softly to and fro.

He could no more-but, stooping down, he clasp'd her to his soul,
And from the honey of her lips a rapturous kiss he stole :-

As hill-deer bound from bugle sound, swerved Mhairi from her rest,
It could not be—oh, yes, 'tis he!—and she sank on Donald's breast.

What boots to tell what them befell-or how, in bridal mirth,
Blithe feet did bound to music's sound, beside the mountain hearth,
Or how the festal cup was drain'd on hill side and on plain,
To the healths of lovely Mhairi, and her faithful Donald Bane.

THE MISER'S GRAVE,

BY THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.

SCENE-A churchyard-A deep grave-GABRIEL the Sexton, and his Assistant TEDDY, resting beside it.

GABRIEL.

Go, bring the pullies, Teddy. We must dip
Full five feet deeper. Bargain's bargain, boy,
And mine's a good one. Bring the pullies, Ted.

TEDDY.

Tuts! 'tis deep enough already.

Wherefore sink
The old man to the centre of the earth?
He'll ne'er get up again.

There you're yourself again! Dolt! gaping fool!
Fall on and work. Thought lies beyond thy grasp.

TEDDY.

Nay, tell me all about it. I like well

To hear about such odd and foolish people

That have no sense. Tuts! what could the man mean
To be a Miser? Where's the sense in that?

GABRIEL.

O most wise youth! Most sapient! Most profound!—
"A Daniel come to judgment!" Come, sit down,
And I will draw thee such a portraiture
Of human nature, as the like, perhaps,
Was never modelled by his Maker's image.

VOL. XXIX. NO. CLXXXI.

3 0

Teddy.

Tuts, man! I know not that. Pray, wasn't the Devil Formed by his Maker's image ?—There I have you. [Laughs and rubs his hands.

GABRIEL.

A Daniel, as I live! A Solomon !
But list to me, dear Teddy. I would drive
Something into your head that may avail you.

TEDDY.

It shall. I'll write a Poem on't, or Play-
Yes, it shall be a Play-THE MISER'S GRAVE!
That's grand.

[Rubbing his hands, and chuckling.

The title will secure a ready market
Into the Annuals. Pringle has applied.
I don't like Pringle, he's too finical,
And so pragmatical about his slaves.
I'll try the German Shovel-board. He pays.
Or Hall-But then his wife's the devil there!
And Watts is ruin'd by false self-conceit.
THE MISER'S GRAVE! 'Tis grand!

[Reaching himself.

A lucky hit.

Nay, after all, I think I shall reduce it

Into a Paraphrase. I like religion best.

GABRIEL.

Quite right, profound logician! Stay thy plans
Of literary glory for a space;

And here's a lesson for the earth-born worm,
So deep engraven on the meagre platen
Of human frailty, so debased in hue,

That he who dares peruse it needs must blush
For his own nature. The poor shrivell'd wretch,
For whose lean carcass yawns this hideous pit,
Had nought that he desired in earth or Heaven-
No God, no Saviour, but that sordid pelf,

O'er which he starved and gloated. I have seen him
On the exchange, or in the market-place,
When money was in plenteous circulation,

Gaze after it with such Satanic looks

Of eagerness, that I have wonder'd oft

How he from theft and murder could refrain.
'Twas cowardice alone withheld his hands,

For they would grasp and grapple at the air,
When his grey eye had fixed on heaps of gold,

While his clench'd teeth, and grinning, yearning face,
Were dreadful to behold. The merchants oft

Would mark his eye, then start and look again,

As at the eye of basilisk or snake.

His eye of greyish green ne'er shed one ray

Of kind benignity or holy light

On aught beneath the sun. Childhood, youth, beauty,

To it had all one hue. Its rays reverted

Right inward, back upon the greedy heart
On which the gnawing worm of avarice
Preyed without ceasing, straining every sense
To that excruciable and yearning core.

Some thirteen days agone, he comes to me,
And after many sore and mean remarks
On men's rapacity and sordid greed,

He says, "Gabriel, thou art an honest man,

As the world goes. How much, then, will you charge

And make a grave for me, fifteen feet deep ?".
"We'll talk of that when you require it, sir.".
"No, no. I want it made, and paid for too;
I'll have it settled, else I know there will
Be some unconscionable overcharge
On my poor friends-a ruinous overcharge."-
"But, sir, were it made now, it would fill up
Each winter to the brim, and be to make
Twenty or thirty times, if you live long."-
"There! There it is! Nothing but imposition!
Even Time must rear his stern, unyielding front,
And holding out his shrivell'd skeleton hand,
Demands my money. Nought but money! money!
Were I coin'd into money I could not

Half satisfy that craving greed of money.

Well, how much do you charge? I'll pay you now,
And take a bond from you that it be made
When it is needed. Come, calculate with reason-
Work's very cheap; and two good men will make
That grave at two days' work; and I can have
Men at a shilling each-without the meat-
That's a great matter! Let them but to meat,
'Tis utter ruin. I'll give none their meat-
That I'll beware of. Men now-a-days are cheap,
Cheap, dogcheap, and beggarly fond of work.
One shilling each a-day, without the meat.
Mind that, and ask in reason; for I wish
To have that matter settled to my mind."-
"Sir, there's no man alive will do't so cheap
As I shall do it for the ready cash,"
Says I, to put him from it with a joke.

"I'll charge you, then, one-fourth part of a farthing
For every cubic foot of work I do,

Doubling the charge each foot that I descend."

Doubling as you descend! Why, that of course.
A quarter of a farthing each square foot-
No meat, remember! Not an inch of meat,
Nor drink, nor dram. You're not to trust to these.
Wilt stand that bargain, Gabriel ?"-" I accept."

He struck it, quite o'erjoy'd. We sought the clerk,
Sign'd-seal'd. He drew his purse. The clerk went on
Figuring and figuring. "What a fuss you make!
'Tis plain," said he," the sum is eighteenpence."-

""Tis somewhat more, sir," said the civil clerk-
And held out the account. "Two hundred round,
And gallant payment over." The Miser's face
Assumed the cast of death's worst lineaments.
His skinny jaws fell down upon his breast;
He tried to speak, but his dried tongue refused
Its utterance, and cluck'd upon the gum.
His heart-pipes whistled with a crannell'd sound;
His knell-knees plaited, and his every bone

Seem'd out of joint. He raved-he cursed-he wept-
But payment he refused. I have my bond,
Not yet a fortnight old, and shall be paid.

It broke the Miser's heart. He ate no more,

Nor drank, nor spake, but groan'd until he died;
This grave kill'd him, and now yearns for his bones.

TEDDY.

Then you have murder'd him. That's flat, I tell you,
I know the law! If one man kills another

By word of mouth, that's murder pat!

I know the law, and say you've murder'd him.
How I should like to see you hung for it!

GABRIEL.

[Rubs his hands and laughs.

But worse than all. 'Tis twenty years and more
Since he brought home his coffin. On that chest
His eye turn'd ever and anon. It minded him,
He said, of death. And as he sat by night
Beside his beamless hearth, with blanket round
His shivering frame, if burst of winter wind
Made the door jangle, or the chimney moan,
Or crannied window whistle, he would start,
And turn his meagre looks upon that chest;
Then sit upon't, and watch till break of day.

Old wives thought him religious-a good man!
A great repentant sinner, who would leave
His countless riches to sustain the poor.
But mark the issue. Yesterday, at noon,

Two men could scarcely move that ponderous chest
To the bedside to lay the body in.

They broke it sundry, and they found it framed
With double bottom! All his worshipp'd gold
Hoarded between the boards! O such a worm
Sure never writhed beneath the dunghill's base!
Fifteen feet under ground! and all his store
Snug in beneath him. Such a heaven was his.
Now, honest Teddy, think of such a wretch,
And learn to shun his vices, one and all.
Though richer than a Jew, he was more poor
Than is the meanest beggar. At the cost
Of other men a glutton. At his own,

A starveling. A mere scrub. And such a coward,
A cozener and liar-but a coward,

And would have been a thief-But was a coward!

TEDDY.

Tuts! who would be a coward? He that fears
Aught under heaven, I count him not a man.
I wonder what could make the wretch a coward?
There was no sense in it! I hate a coward!

GABRIEL.

And I despise him. Prithee, Ted, go down
Into that pit; let me remain above.

TEDDY.

Why, man, think you I'm mad? If that there grave
Should burst in over me, and bury me

Alive beneath a mountain, I know naught

Could be more curstly disagreeable.

GABRIEL.

And yet you hate a coward odiously?

TEDDY.

Tuts, man! I but said a man should not

Fear aught beneath the heavens; I did not say
Beneath the earth. Step down, and take your chance;
You're well paid for it. If that there pit should burst

Above him now, it would be excellent sport!

[Exit laughing, and rubbing his hands.