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How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou

start? 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'cr him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him,

Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart?

The kirk was deckd at morning-tide,

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

And dame and knight are there,
They sought her both by bower and ba,

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

Wi' Jock of Hazeldean,


Air-Cadil gulo.

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 pages stand 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.

OTUSI thee, my babie, thy sire was a knight;
Thy mother a lady, both lovely and bright;
The woods and the glens, from the towers which we get
They all are belonging, dear baby, to thee.

O ho ro, i ri ri, cadil gulo,
O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wilderd, he drops from some cliff huge in

And draws luis 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 flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

O fear not the bugle, though loudly it blows,
It calls but the warders that guard thy repose,
their bows would be bended, their blades would
Ere the step of a foeman draws near to thy bed.

O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

'. Sleep on till day. These words, adapted to me.*** what different from the original, are sung in my friend o drama of Guy Manpering.

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'Thee Pibroch of Donald the Black,

1. I will never go with him.

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Anz--Cha till mi tuille.'

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

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,» e 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.

'T is 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.

'T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fall,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly" meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ; 2
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the winc-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

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 arc roaming;
Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!

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- Farewell the bright clouds that onQuillan 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

Though devoted I go-to return again never!

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.

The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Be beard when the Gael on their exile are sailings 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!»

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 thosc bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Eurick'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?


On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,
"T is 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.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord,

How to the midstrel's skill reply!
To aching cyes each landscape lowers,

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

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;

We retorp no more.. *Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been engaged with some friends.

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Air-The Maid of Isla. Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.


Air - Ymdaith Mionge. Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

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ETABLRID, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a Britisha prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in proces sion, 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 nastery. 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,

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.

Waen the heatheo 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 miscrere, Domine!

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 Allan Vourich find his home.

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 unballow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

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