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Combined by honour's sacred tie, Our word is, Laws and Liberty! March forward, one and all!

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. AIR-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,
And hammers din and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.

Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.

They swore their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;
They vow'd, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel,

And sooth they swore-the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows;
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Roll'd down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vow'd-the trampled green
Show'd where hot Neville's charge had been :
In every sable hoof-tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood!

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That arm'd stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.

THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. AIR-Dafydd y Garreg-wen.1

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,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die;
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

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In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the
and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
But where is the harp shall give life to their name?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?
And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair,
Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;
What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye,
When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall die?
Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene,
To join the dim choir of the bards who have been;
With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old,
And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades,
Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids!
And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,
Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell!

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,
With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread
rattle,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale.
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

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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

NORA'S VOW.

Written for Albyn's Anthology. AIR-Cha teid mis a chaoidh.'

to his own. The words of the set theme, or melody, In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations

to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic :

Piobaireachd Dhonuil, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.

The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,

The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,

The war-pipe and the pennon are at the gathering-place on Inverlochy.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons.

Come from deep gleen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded:

The Pibroch of Donald the Black.

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,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son.>>

<< A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke,
<< Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.>>

<< The swan,» she said, «< the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.>>

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made,
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

I will never go with him..

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MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

AIR-Cha till mi tuille.1

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.

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