I. O, will you hear a knightly tale Of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer In wedlock bed he lay; He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, That was as sweet as May, And said, «Now, lady of my heart, 11. « T is I have vow'd a pilgrimage And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, Then out and spoke that lady bright, Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, IV. Out spoke the noble Moringer, The trustiest shall rule my land, My vassals and my state, And be a guardian tried and true To thee, my lovely mate. V. As christian-man, I needs must keep The vow which I have plight; When I am far in foreign land, Remember thy true knight; And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, VI. It was the noble Moringer From bed he made him bowne, He dipp'd his hand in water cold, VII. « Now hear," he said, « Sir Chamberlain, True vassal art thou mine, And such the trust that I repose In that proved worth of thine, For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, And pledge thee for my lady's faith VIII. The chamberlain was blunt and true, And sturdily said he, « Abide, my lord, and rule your own, And take this rede from me; That woman's faith's a brittle trust Seven twelvemonths didst thou say? The noble baron turn'd him round, To whom he spoke right anxiously, He leant upon his pilgrim staff, « Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be?»> XXI. The miller answer'd him again, « Of him I held the little mill Which wins me living free, God rest the baron in his grave, He still was kind to me; And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, The priest that prays for Moringer It was the noble Moringer And stood before the bolted gate To gain the entrance of my hall, « I've wander'd many a weary step, I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, And for the sake of Moringer's, It was the stalwart warder then « A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, And for the sake of Moringer, The lady's gentle heart was moved, « And bid the wanderer welcome be And since he names my husband's name, XXVIII. It was the stalwart warder then It was the noble Moringer That o'er the threshold strode; « And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,» he said, Though from a man of sin, That the true lord stands here once more His castle gate within.» Then ΧΧΙΧ. up the hall paced Moringer, His step was sad and slow, It sat full heavy on his heart, None seem'd their lord to know; Oppress'd with woe and wrong, Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, The time was nigh when new-made brides << Our castle's wont,» a brides-man said, Hath been both firm and long, No guest to harbour in our halls Till he shall chaunt a song.» D Lay shalm and harp aside; Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, And well his guerdon will I pay Chill flows the lay of frozen age,»> But time traced furrows on my face, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, Once rich, but now a palmer poor, And mingle with your bridal mirth XXXIV. It was the noble lady there This woful lay that hears, And for the aged pilgrim's grief Her was dimm'd with tears; eye She bade her gallant cup-bearer A golden beaker take, And bear it to the palmer poor XXXV. It was the noble Moringer That dropp'd, amid the wine, A bridal-ring of burning gold, So costly and so fine; Now listen, gentles, to my song, It tells you but the sooth, T was with that very ring of gold He pledged his bridal truth. XLIII. << The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, The old bridegroom the old, Whose faith was kept till term and tide But blessings on the warder kind Miscellanies. WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms? Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peace might be argued : But where we grapple for the land we live on, The liberty we hold more dear than life, The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, It must not be.-No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing; Bonduca, THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more succes-ful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: « Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate.» To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The Gallic navy stems the seas, From high Dunedin's towers we come, Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, The Royal Colours. Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn; And, foaming, gnaw the chain; O! had they mark'd the avenging call' Their brethren's murder gave, Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave! Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land And set that night in blood. For gold let Gallia's legions fight, Or plunder's bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our King, to fence our Law, Nor shall their edge be vain. If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore, Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, ca the fatal 10th August, 1793. It is painful, but not useless, to remari that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the deat of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in ds bar of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injoii * by which the Alps, once the s at of the most virtuous and ** people upon the Continent, have, at length, been converted mu the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degrades a half enslaved. Combined by honour's sacred tie, THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. 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, THE Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, Foul fall the hand which bends the steel From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, And forth, in banded pomp and pride, They swore their banners broad should gleam, And sooth they swore-the sun arose, Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. 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, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side; And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, |