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.

MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, « Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming,
Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming;
Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!

«Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell!-and for ever-
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never!
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me;
But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not
shiver,

Though devoted I go-to return again never!

« Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land! to the shores, whence unwilling we sever,
Return-return-return-shall we never,

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille!
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon!>>

ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.2

ON Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,

'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood

Far through the noon-day solitude;

By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,

'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,

When to the hook the salmon springs, And the line whistles through the rings;

We return no more."

* Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been engaged with some friends.

The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.

'Tis blithe along the midnight tide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like genii, arm'd with fiery spears.

'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's' lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; 2
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL. AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuueless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Alwyn, the sent of the Lord Somerville, now, alas! untenanted,

by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the author's nearest neighbour and intimate friend.

2 Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time.

THE MAID OF ISLA.

AIR-The Maid of Isla.

Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky, Dost thou not see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly? Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge, And steep'd her leeward deck in foam, Why does she war unequal urge?—

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wing gleams through mist and spray, Against the storm-clad, louring dark,

As to the rock she wheels away; —
Where clouds are dark and billows rave,
Why to the shelter should she come
Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?-
O maid of Isla, 't is her home.

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing.

Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come;

For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Alan Vourich find his home.

THE FORAY.

Set to music by John Whitefield, Mus. Doc. Cam.

THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red;
Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone!
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom,
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;

And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud: "T is the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Gray!
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness and
rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown;
One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and begone!-
To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the
slain;

To their health, and their glee, that see Teviot again'

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.
Ain-Ymdaith Mionge.

Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

ETHELRID, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, Veiled nun and friar gray

March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye :

High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,
O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled:
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere, Domine!
Bangor! o'er the murder wail,
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre:- tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas..

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;

OR

THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.
WRITTEN IN 1817.

O, FOR a glance of that gay Muse's eye,

That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale, And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly, When Giam Battista bade her vision hail! * Yet fear not, ladies, the naïve detail

Given by the natives of that land canorous; Italian license loves to leap the pale,

We Britons have the fear of shame before us, And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
<< Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!»-
All have their tastes-this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me,
I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys-
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay-
Such monarchs best our free-born humours suit,
But despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

say-

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-
And where's Serendib? may some critic
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!

If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sindbad's map,-
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-
The last edition see by Long, and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-
This Sultaun, whether lacking contradiction-
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
Sovereign specific for all sort of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Or cordial smooth, for prince's palate fitter-
Or if some Mollah had hag-rid his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not-but the Sultaun never laugh'd,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy, profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,

Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.

The hint of the following tale is taken from La Camiscia Magica, a novel of Giam Battista Casti. *

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,
As e'er scrawl'd jargon in a darken'd room;
With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed,
Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,
And then in solemn accents spoke their doom,
<< His majesty is very far from well.»
Then each to work with his specific fell:
The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought
His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut,'
While Roompot, a practitioner more wily;
Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily.

More and yet more in deep array appear,
And some the front assail and some the rear:
Their remedies to reinforce and vary,
Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary;
Till the tired monarch, though of words grown chary,
Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labour,
Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre.
There lack'd, I promise you, no longer speeches,
To rid the palace of those learned leeches.

Then was the council call'd-by their advice,
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,
And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders),
Tatars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of eastern parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholders-
Such have the Persians at this very day,
My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;
I'm not prepared to show in this slight song
That to Serendib the same forms belong,―
E'en let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

The Omrahs,3 each with hand on seymitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for war-

<< The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death;
Let the Tambourgi bid his signal rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary cloud that dims our sovereign's day
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels his courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-
And for the charges-Lo! your faithful Commons !»>
The Riots who attended in their places

(Serendib-language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters: And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers.

Others opined that through the realms a dole
Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit
The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul;

But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit,
More closely touch'd the point: Thy studious mood,»
Quoth he, « O prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood,
And dull'd thy brain with labour beyond measure;
Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,
And toy with beauty or tell o'er thy treasure;
From all the cares of state, my liege, enlarge thee,
And leave the burthen to thy faithful clergy.»

These counsels sage availed not a whit,

And so the patient (as is not uncommon
Where grave physicians lose their time and wit)
Resolved to take advice of an old woman;
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous,
And still was call'd so by each subject duteous.
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,

Or only made believe, I cannot say—
But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,
By dint of magic amulet or lay;

And, when all other skill in vain was shown,
She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

« Sympathia magica hath wonders done,»
(Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),
« It works upon the fibres and the pores,
And thus, insensibly, our health restores,
And it must help us here.-Thou must endure
The ill, my son, or travel for the cure,
Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can,
The inmost vesture of a happy man,

I mean his SHIRT, my son, which, taken warm
And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm,

Bid every current of veins rejoice,

your

your

And dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's.»>
Such was the counsel from his mother came.
I know not if she had some under-game,

As doctors have, who bid their patients roam
And live abroad, when sure to die at home;
Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,
Queen Regent sounded better than Queen Mother;
But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it ?)
That such was her advice--the Sultaun took it.

All are on board-the Sultaun and his train, In gilded galley prompt to plough the main:

Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap, I
Incline to think some of them must be happy ;
At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
They drink good wine, and keep no Ramazan.
Then northward, ho!» The vessel cuts the sea,
And fair Italia lies upon her lee.-

But fair Italia, she who once unfurl'd
Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world,
Long from her throne of domination tumbled,
Lay, by her quondam vassals, sorely humbled;
The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,
And was not half the man he once had been.
« While these the priest and those the noble fleeces,
Our poor old boot,»' they said, « is torn to pieces.
Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel,
And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel.3
If happiness you seek, to tell
you truly,
We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
A tramontane, a heretic,-the buck,
Poffaredio! still has all the luck;

By land or ocean never strikes his flag-
And then-a perfect walking money-bag.»
Off set our prince to seek John Bull's abode,
But first took France-it lay upon the road.

Thought it a thing indelicate and needless

To ask, if at that moment he was happy,

And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a
Loud voice muster'd up, for « Vive le Roi!»

Then whisper'd, « Ave you any news of Nappy!»
The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross question,-
«Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull,
That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool ?»
The query seem'd of difficult digestion,

The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff,
And found his whole good breeding scarce enough.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers. As damsels wont to put into their tuckers (Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn,

ther?»

They paused-« Arabia,» thought the pensive prince,

<< Was call'd The Happy many ages since

For Mokha, Rais.»-And they came safely thither. But not in Araby with all her balm, Nor where Judæa weeps beneath her palm, Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste, Could there the step of Happiness be traced. One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile, When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile; She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaff'd, But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause,

<< Jean Bool!-I vas not know him-yes, I vas

I vas remember dat von year or two,

I saw him at von place cail'd Vaterloo-
Ma foi! il s'est très-joliment battu,
Dat is for Englishman,--m'entendez-vous ?
But den he had wit him von damn son-gun,
Rogue I no like-dey call him Vellington.»
Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
So Solimaun took leave and cross'd the streight.

The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.

2 Florence, Venice, etc.

The Calabrias, infested by hands of assassins. One of the leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i, e. Brother Devil.

4 Or drubbing, so called in the Slang dictionary.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then 't was reckoning-day with honest John,
And authors vouch 't was still this worthy's way,
«Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much,»>1
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearty,

That when his mortal foe was on the floor,
And past the power to harm his quiet more,
Poor John had well nigh wept for Bonaparte!
Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam'd,—
«And who are you,» John answer'd, « and be d-d?»

« A stranger, come to see the happiest man,So, seignior, all avouch,-in Frangistan.»

Happy! my tenants breaking on my hand?
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broad-cloths-
Happy! why, cursed war and racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.»>
«In that case, Seignior, I may take my leave;
I came to ask a favour-but I grieve-->>

« Favour?» said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard,
<< It's my belief you came to break the yard!-
But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner,-
Take that, to buy yourself a shirt and dinner.»>-
With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head;
But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said,—
<< Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline;

A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine.
Seignior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well.»>

« Kiss and be d-d,» quoth John, « and go to hell!»>

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg,
When the blithe bagpipe blew--but soberer now,
She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow.
And whereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a-month her house was partly swept,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.
And whereas eke the vixen used her claws,
And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation;
The sole remembrance of her warlike joys
Was in old songs she sang to please her boys.
John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife,
She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life,
Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour,
Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour,
Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon,
And was d-d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum curtsied sister Peg;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.)

See the True-Born Englishman, by Daniel de Foe. 1 Europe.

She bade him « sit into the fire,» and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbock from the nook;
Ask'd him «about the news from eastern parts;
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts!
If peace brought down the price of tea and
pepper,
And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper?-
Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park-
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If
ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning,
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen.»

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The emerald Isle where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.

For a long space had John, with words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that 's flogg'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middlemen two brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potatoe, and a cold one;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.