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burrers qapisnu jom gog 299 o pes pue 133 1 Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scoutish phrase for a bette Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Link'd as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail.

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southlapd gale!
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail;
Be prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know,
Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe:
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,
Wafling onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Acadia's' winter-fetter'd soil,
He hears with throbbing heart and moisten's eyes,
And as he hears, what dcar illusions rise!
It opens on his soul his native dell,
The woods wild waving, and the water's swell;
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listend with a smile.
The wanderer, wbile the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May be hoist all his canvas from streamer lo deck,
But 0! crowd it higher when wafting him back-
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
Shall welcome Mackenz h Chief of Kintail!



Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our bumble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferred that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!

So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people depart.
Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, are heard
Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the bard;
Or its strings are but waked by the stern winter gale,
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kictail.

From the far southland border a minstrel came forth,
And he waited the hour that some bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.



And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame?
No, son of Fitzgerald ! in accents of woe,
The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail,

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong, air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue , upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore dis- For brighter o'cr all her obstructions arose tinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They The glow of the genius they could not oppose ; were composed by the family bard upon the departure And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael, of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintalo in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,

| All a father could hope, all a friend could approve; FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,

What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell, The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;

In the spring-time of youth and of promise they f«l!! To the chieftain this morning his course who began,

Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male, Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.

To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail. For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail, Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of kintail!

And thou, geatle dame, who must bear to thy gricl. O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,

For thy clan and thy country, the cares of 2 chief, May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

parting with a friend.

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Though thus be dealt in petty treason,

He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

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 !»


O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful cbe omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd ia rain, And, beholding broad Europe bowd down by her foeder,

Purt closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could beod 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.

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May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and LandThen up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

ward, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; | From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook ; In sport we 'Ul attend her, in battle defend her, And huzza ! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUGI and his With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.


For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke! When the southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, For around them were marshall’d the pride of the Border, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUGH. In sport we 'll attend her, in battle defend her, Then up with the Banner, etc.

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.

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,

Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good And hail like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and CAR; To carry two visages under one hood; | And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenty, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty? Then up with the Banner, etc.

Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,

Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth? Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, Man, woman, or child ? or a dog, or a mouse?

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, Each live thing did I ask ? each dead implement too! And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw! Then up with the Banner, etc.

Above all, are you one individual? I know

You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co. And when it is over, we 'll drink a blithe measure But I think you 're a troop-an assemblage-a mob

To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun, And that I, as the sberiff, must take up the job, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse! Then up with the Banner, etc.

Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.



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