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!»

THE TROUBADOUR.

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good-morrow:
My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true love's bower;
Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.»

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,
The minstrel burden still he sung:

« My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour.»>

E'en when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way,
'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;

« My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love to die, for fame to fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»-

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 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 GRÆME;
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

BUCCLEUGH,

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.

CHORUS.

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.

When the southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUGH. Then up with the Banner, etc.

A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.
Then up with the Banner, etc.

We forget each contention of civil dissension,
And hail like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and CAR;
And ELLIOT and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with the Banner, etc.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

Then up with the Banner, etc.

And 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.

IMPROMPTU.

TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE.

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good
To carry two visages under one hood;
What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenty,
That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty?
Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,
Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth?
Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse?
Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?
Each live thing did I ask ? each dead implement too!
A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw?
Above all, are you one individual? I know
You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co.
But I think you're a troop-an assemblage-a mob-
And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job,
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,
Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse !
Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.