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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,
Attend the words I say.

11.

« T is I have vow'd a pilgrimage
Unto a distant shrine,

And I must seek Saint Thomas-land,
And leave the land that 's mine;
Here shalt thou dwell the while in state,
So thou wilt pledge thy fay,
That thou for my return wilt wait
Seven twelvemonths and a day.»
JII.

Then out and spoke that lady bright,
Sore troubled in her cheer,

Now, tell me true, thou noble knight,
What order takest thou here;
And who shall lead thy vassal band,
And hold thy lordly sway,
And be thy lady's guardian true
When thou art far away?»

IV.

Out spoke the noble Moringer,
« Of that have thou no care,
There's many a valiant gentleman
Of me holds living fair;

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,
For vain were sorrow now,
But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Since God hath heard his vow.»>

VI.

It was the noble Moringer

From bed he made him bowne,
And met him there his chamberlain,
With ewer and with gown:
He flung the mantle on his back,
"T was furr'd with miniver,

He dipp'd his hand in water cold,
And bathed his forehead fair.

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 lead my vassal train,

And pledge thee for my lady's faith
Till I return again.»

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?
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
Beyond the seventh fair day.»
IX.

The noble baron turn'd him round,
His heart was full of care,
His gallant esquire stood him nigh,
He was Marstetten's heir,

To whom he spoke right anxiously,
<< Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust
When I am o'er the sea?

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He leant upon his pilgrim staff,
And to the mill he drew,
So alter'd was his goodly form,
That none their master knew;
The baron to the miller said,

« Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be?»> XXI.

The miller answer'd him again,
« He knew of little news,
Save that the lady of the land
Did a new bridegroom chuse ;
Her husband died in distant land,
Such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls,
He was a worthy lord.

« 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,
And millers take their toll,

The priest that prays for Moringer
Shall have both cope and stole.>>
XXIII.

It was the noble Moringer
To climb the hill began,

And stood before the bolted gate
A woe and weary man;
«Now help me, every saint in heaven,
That can compassion take,

To gain the entrance of my hall,
This woful match to break.»

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« I've wander'd many a weary step,
My strength is well nigh done,
And if she turn me from her gate
I'll see no morrow's sun;

I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,
A pilgrim's bed and dole,

And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul.>>
XXVI.

It was the stalwart warder then
He came his dame before,

« A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd
Stands at the castle-door;

And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake,
For harbour and for dole,

And for the sake of Moringer,
Thy noble husband's soul.»>
XXVII.

The lady's gentle heart was moved,
«<< Do up the gate,» she said,

« And bid the wanderer welcome be
To banquet and to bed;

And since he names my husband's name,
So that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage
A twelvemonth and a day.»>

XXVIII.

It was the stalwart warder then
Undid the portal broad,

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;
He sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with woe and wrong,
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him
Seem'd little space so long.
XXX.

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,
And come was evening hour,

The time was nigh when new-made brides
Retire to nuptial bower;

<< 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.»

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Lay shalm and harp aside;

Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,
The castle's rule to hold;

And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold.»
XXXII.

Chill flows the lay of frozen age,»>
T was thus the pilgrim sung,
«Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,
Unlocks her heavy tongue;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,
At board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride,
With all her charms, was mine.
XXXIII.

But time traced furrows on my face,
And I grew silver-hair'd,

For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,
She left this brow and beard;

Once rich, but now a palmer poor,
I tread life's latest stage,

And mingle with your bridal mirth
The lay of frozen age.»>

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
To quaff it for her sake.

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.

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XLIII.

<< The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, The old bridegroom the old,

Whose faith was kept till term and tide
So punctually were told;

But blessings on the warder kind
That oped my castle-gate,
For had I come at morrow-tide,
I came a day too late.>>

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,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome-

It must not be.-No! as they are our foes,

Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.-

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 bugles sound the call;

The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of Battle 's on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue.'

The Royal Colours.

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

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,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,

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
Shall fan the tri-color,

Or footstep of invader rude,

With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore,

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer, or to die.

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,
Our word is, Laws and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE.
AIR-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.

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.

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 Chep-Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
stow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a
stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and
Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed bat-
tle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a
ancient castle.
very

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

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.
An-Dafydd y Garreg-wen,'

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;
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!

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