« Thy tower another banner knows,

Thy steeds another rein.
And stoop them to another's will

Thy gallant vassal train-;
And she, the lady of thy love,

So faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall,

She weds Marstettens heir.»


It is the noble Moringer

Starts up and tears his beard, w Oh would that I bad ne'er been born!

What tidings have I heard!
To lose my lordship aud my lands

The less would be my care,
But, God! that e'er a squire untrue

Should wed my lady fair!


« O good Saint Thomas, hear,» he pray'd,

« My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs inc of my land

Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy

That was so pure of name. And I am far in foreign laud,

And must endure the shame.»


It wis the good Saint Thomas, then,

Who heard his pilgrim's prayer,
And sent a sleep so deep and dead

That it o'erpower'd his care;
He waked in fair Bohemian land,

Outstrctch'd beside a rill,
High on the right a castle stood,

Low on the left a mill.


The Moringer he started up

As one from spell unbound, And, dizzy with surprise aud joy,

Gazed wildly all around; « I know my father's ancient towers,

The mill, the stream I know, Now blessed be my patron saint

Who checr'd his pilgrim's woe!»


He leant upon his pilgrim staff,

And to the mill he drew,
So aller'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?»


The miller answer'd him again,

« lie 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,

Uc was a worthy lord.

XXII. « 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.n

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."


His very knock it sounded sad,

His call was sad and slow,
For heart and head, and voice and hand,

Were heavy all with woe;
And to the warder thus he spoke:

« Friend, to thy lady say,
A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-laud

Graves harbour for a day.


« I Vc wander'd many a weary step,

My strength is well nigh done,
And if she turn me from her gate

I '11 see uo morrow's sun;
I pray, for sweet Saiul Thomas' sake,

A pilgrim's bed ;ind dole.
And for the sake of Moringer's,

Her once loved hits baud's soul.)*


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.w


The lady's gentle heart was moved,

« Do up the gale,» she said,
« And bid the wanderer welcome be

To banquet and to bed;
Aud since he names my husband's name,

So that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage

A twelvcmouth and a day.»

xx vm.

It was the stalwart warder then

Undid [he portal broad, It was the noble Moringer

Thn o'er the threshold strode; « And have thou thanks kind Heaven,* be swJ,

« Though from a man of sin, That the true lord stands here once more

His castlegatc within.)*


Then up the hall paced Moringer,

His step was sad and slow. It at full heavy 00, liis heart,

None scem'd their lord to know; Be sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with woe and wrong. Short space he sat, but ne'er to him

Scem'd little space so long.


Now spent was day, and feasting o'er.

Aod come was evening hour, The time was nigh when dew-made brides

Retire to nuptial bower; n 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.»


Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there.

As he sat by the bride, 0 Sly merry minstrel folks,» quoth he,

"Lay shdlm 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.n


■ 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 hoard as rich as thine.
And by my side as fair a bride,

With all her charms, was mine.


■ But time traced furrows on my face, And I grew silvcr-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,
Ami mingle with your bridal mirth

The lay of frozen agc.»


It was the noble lady there

This woful lav that hears,
And for the aged pilgrim's grief

Iler eye was dimm'd with tears;
She bade her gallant cup-bearer

A golden beaker take,
And hear it to the palmer poor

To quaff it for her sake.


It was the noble Morinjcr

That dropp'd, amid the wine,
A hridal-riug of burning gold,

So cosily and so fine;
Now listen, gentles, to my song.

It tells you hut the sooth,
T was willi that very ring of gold

He pledged his bridal truth.


Then to the cup-bearer he said,

it Do me one kindly deed, And should my better days return,

Full rich shall be thy meed;
Bear back the golden cup again

To yonder bride so gay,.
And crave her, of her courtesy,

To pledge the palmer gray.n


The cup-bearer was courtly bred,

Nor was the boon denied. The golden cup he took again,

And bore it to the bride; « Lady,» he said, «your reverend guest

Sends this, and bids me pray, That, in thy noble courtesy,

Thou pledge the palmer gray.*


The ring hath caught the lady's eye,

She views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud,

«The Moringer is hcro!.»
Then might you sec her start from seat,

While tears in torrents fell,
But whether t was for joy or woe,

The ladies best can lell.


But loud she utter d thanks to Heaven,

And every saintly power.
That had return'd the Moringer

Before the midnight hour;
And loud she utter'd vow on vow,

That never was there bride
That had like her preserved her troth,

Or been so sorely tried.

XL. « Yes, here I claim the praise,» she said.

« To constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight

So slcdfastly and true;
For count the term howe'er you will,

So that you count aright.
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out

When bells toll twelve to-night.*


It was Marstetten then rose up.

His falchion there he drew, He knecl'd before the Moringer,

And down his weapon threw; « My oath and knightly faith are broke,"

These were the words he said, « Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword,

And take thy vassal's head.»


The noble Moringer he smiled.

And then aloud did say, « lie gathers wisdom thai hath roam'd

Seven twelvemonths and a day. My daughter now hath fifteen years,

Fame speaks her sweet and fair, I give her for the bride you lose.

And name her for my heir.

XI.III. « Tlie younR 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 kiutl That oped my castle-pate,

For had I come at morrov-tide, 1 came a day too late..




Nenniut, Is not peace the end of orra* T

Caratoeh. Not whore tbe cause Implies a general conquest. ITad w« K difference wiih «om« pony Me, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmark!, Tho taking in of some rebellious lord. Or making hrml against a slight commotion. After a day of blood, peaci- mi^ht be argued: Hot where we grapple for the land wo lite on. The liberty we bold more dear than life. The gods we norship, and, next these, our honoura. And. with those, swords, thai know no end of battle— Those men, beside tbenuelves, allow no neighbour, Tho*e minds, that. where ifao day la, claim inheritance. And, where the ann makes rip« tho fruit, their barrest. And, where thoy march, but measure out more ground

To add to Rome

It roust not bo.—No! ns ihey arc our foe*,

Let 'a use the peace of honour— that 'a fair dealing;

Bnt in our hands our iwords. Tim hardy Roman,

That thinks to graft himself into my slock.

Must first I cjjin his kindred under ground.

And be allied in ashes.


Tiie 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-Lnthian 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 succcs-ful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3ooo 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 majorcs 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 leopards spoils surround, With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;

We boast the red aud blue.1

1 The Royal Colours.

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown

Dull Holland's tardy train;
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switiers vainly spurn,

And, foaming, gnaw the chain ;—

O! had they mark'd the avenging call1

Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks bad 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 T

No! though destruction o'er the land

Come pouring as a Hood,
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, ourswords 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 nde,

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 Swiu Gasias.«* fatal lotfa August, 1791. Ii j, painful, bat not awleu. »«•»* that the passive lumper with which the Swiss rr*a«s"sfl nW *•*» of their bravest coontrymt-n, mercilessly sfaagbwrrsl ia 4s**«r* of their duty, encourage and authorised the prjgrasM" ■J'* * by which ibe Alps, once the sat of tbe most ririHMs is J r~ people upon tho Continent, hate, at length. l*» «•»«**■" the citadel of a foreign and military despot- A sill* dejr**^ ■ half enslaved.

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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;

Tbey vow'd, Caerpluli'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'dwhere 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.


Ai«—Dafydd y Gs/Tvy-KV*.1

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Dinas Em Linn, lament, for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die;
No more by sweet TeiviCadwalton shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

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

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
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 haii
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, Uncouquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can ti Farewell, my loved harp! my last treasure, farewell!

1 Darid of the white Rock.

his harp, and composed the sweet melancholy air which these verses are united, requesting that it niii be performed at his funeral.


O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the da wood, All as a fair maiden, bewilder d in sorrow,

Sorely sijjh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. « O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bendin

Sweet Virgin! who hearcst the suppliants 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 ft Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dre rattle,

And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the ga 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.

« O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!

O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying;

And fast through the woodland approaches the foe.» Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow.

And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with < spair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,

For ever he set to the brave and the fair.


In the spring of i8o5, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Ilellvellyn. His remains were uoi discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I Climb'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvcllyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,

And staning around me the echoes replied. . On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was

bending, And Catchcdicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer had died. ■

Dark green was the spot mid the brown mountain heather.

Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay strctch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon d to weather,

Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mule favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumberT
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?

And, oh! was it meet, that,—no requiem read o'er him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,

And thou, little guardian, alone strctch'd before him,—

Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
And pagesstand mute by the canopied pall:

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

But mccter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wildcr'd, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover Hying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying. In the arms of Hcllvcllvu and Catchcdicam.


Ait-4 BorAr Metedf.

The first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The often were written for Mr Campbell's Albyn.'s jfntkol&jy

« Why weep ye by the tide, ladie?

Why weep ye by the tide?
III wed ye to my youngest son.

And ye sail be his bride:
And ye sail be his bride, ladie,

Sae comely to be scrim—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

« Now let this wilful grief be done,

And dry that cheek so pale; Young Frank is chief of Errington,

And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle kecun—
But aye she loot the tears down fa

For Jock of Hazeldean.

« A chain o' gold ye sail not lack.

Nor braid to hind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk.

Nor palfrey fresh and fair;
And you, the foremost o' them a'.

Shall ride our forest queeua—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'

For Jock of Hazeldean.

The kirk was deck'd at morning-tide.

The tapers glimmer'd fair; The priest and bridegroom wail the bride,

And dame and knight are there.
They sought her both by bower and ha'.

The ladie was not seen!
She "s o'er the Border, and awa'

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean.

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