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

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-feltcrd soil,
He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes.
And as he hears, what dear 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 talcs of old,
The infant group that hushd their sports.the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Arc 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, lias felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail fly Mulls dark coast has heard this evenings tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells what e'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly prefcrr'd 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 daughters love!



In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,

Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean sbooli

boil: |

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank bis 0000.111,*
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of KinuiL

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! |
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft 00 hi* tail;
Be prolonged 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 pic,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!

Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May he hoist all his canvas from streamer lo deck.
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him hack-
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Co nan's glad \ale,
Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail'



The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorratns, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the Karl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after au unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

Farewkll to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,
The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;
To the chieftain this morniii,; his course who began,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail!
0 swift be the galley, and hardy her crew.
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

'Acadia, or Nora Scotia.

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 beard
Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the Uri.
Or its striugs are hut waked by the stern vrinfr pk.
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief of kicuil

From the far southland border a minstrel came fbrik
And he w aitcd the hour that some bard of the north
His hand 611 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 Um Gael,
To lament for Mackcuzic, last Chief of Kiutail-

And shall 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 flo«,
And teach thy wild mountain* to join in the vail.
That lament] for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kinuil.

In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
Fate deadend thine ear and imprison'd thv ioo$n
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose
The glow of the genius they could not oppose;
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,
Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of KinoO'

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in lore,
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve
What vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell,—
In the spring-time of youth and of promise tbey H!
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male.
To hear the proud uamc of the Chief of Kintail.

And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thypriit-
For thy clan and thy country, the cares of « chief,

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Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of (by husband, ami father, and brethren bereft.
To thine ear of affection how sad is the h.iil,
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!



Tbis <ong appears to be imperfect, or at least, like j many of theearlv Garlic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from, the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan,who opens tlie song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogiurn over the military glories of the chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt Mylc of the original.

A Weary month lias wander d o'er
Since l;isi we parted on the shore;
Heavcu! that I saw thee, love, once more,

Safe on that shore again! —
T was valiant Lachlan gave the word;
Lacblan, of ninny .1 galley lord:
lie call'd his kindred bands on board,

And iaunch'd them on the main.

Clao-Cilliau' is to ocean pooe;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil;
For wide is heard the thunderiug fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away

Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound

Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound;

Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

Shall shake their inmost cell. Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze. Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays; The fools might face the lightning's blaze

As wisely and as well!


Soft spread the southern summer night

Her veil of darksome blue;
T<*n thousand stars combined to light

The terrace of Saint-Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd,

Like breath of lover true, Bcwiiling the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint-Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,

The huglc wildly blew
Good night to tlulan and Hussar,

That garrison Saint-Cloud.

1 i *. Tbe clan of Maclean, literal)]' ibe race of Glllino.

The startled naiads from the shade

With broken arms withdrew.
And silenced was that proud cascade,

The glory of Saint-Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,

Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of Saint-Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note

Fall light as summer-dew, While through the moonless air they float,

Proloug'd from fair Saint-Cloud,

And sure a melody more sweet

His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet

With princes at Saint-Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,

The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear

Our songstress at Saint-Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,—
Then give those hours their due,

And rank among the foremost class
Our evenings at Saint-Cloud.

Paris, Sept. 5, 1815.



The original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French Songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it bclougs. The translation is strictly literal.

It was Dunois, the young and brave,

Was bound for Palestine, Out first he made his orisons

Before Saint Mary's shrine: « And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,'

Was still the soldier's prayer, nThat I m.iv prove the bravest knight,

And love the fairest fair.»

Ills oath of honour on the shrine

He graved it with his sword.
And follow'd to the Holy Land

The banner of his lord;
Where, faithful to his noble vow,

His war-cry fill'd tlje air,
« He honour'*! aye the bravest knight,

I'eloved the fairest fair.*

They owed the conquest to his arm,

Ai:d then his liege-lord said, « The heart that has for hooour beat.

By bliss must he 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 hound 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 he the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair!*


Glowikg with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came.

And thus he sung his last good-morrow: « My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to light

Be fits the gallant Troubadour.*

And while hemarch'd with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung. As faithful to bis favourite maid,

The minstrel burden still he sung: « My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love nod fame to fight,

I come, a gallant Troubadour.»

E'en when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart lie hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering laucc and falchion-sweep,

And still was heard his warrior-lay; « My life it is my country's right.

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame lo light.

Becomes the valiant Troubudour.u—

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeinan's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield.

Expiring sung the exulting slave: « My life it is my country's right,

My heart it is my lady's bower; For love and fame to fill in tight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

FROM Till- FRENCH. It chanced that Cupid on a season.

By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason

Or Folly should partake his bed.

What does he then?—Tpmi my life, T was bad example for a deily—

He takes me Reason for his wife, And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

Though thus be dealt in petty treason.
He loved them both in equal measure;

Fidelity was bom of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.



O Dread was the time,and more dreadful the <

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in vain. And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down bv her foeurn.

Pitt closed in his augui-h the map of hrrrri^n! Xot the faicof broad Euro|>e could bend bis brave spirit,!

To take for his country the safety of shame; O then iu her triumph remember his merit.

And hallow the goblet that flows to his ■

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces tkr furrow.

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain. He may plough it with labour, anil sow it in sorrow.

And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain; He may die ere bis children shall reap iu their gladness

But the blithe harvest-home shall remember lii-chimAnd (heir jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness

While they hallow the goblet that llows to his nacae.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended.

In toils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended.

To light the long darkness of doubt aud despair,
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,

The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame.
In her glory's rich harvest shall Hritaiu remember.

And hallow the goblet that (lows to his name.

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,

Is deaf to the tale of our victories wou,
And lo sounds the most dear to paternal affection,

1 be shout of his people applauding his Soa; By bis firmness unmoved in success or disaster.

By Ins long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute lo Put join the praise of his Master,

Tih.u, h a tear stain the goblet that Hows to bis name

Yet again fill the wine-cup,and change the sad measure,

The riles of our grief and our gratitude paid. To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure

The wisdom that plann'tl. and the real that obey a Fill Wellington's cup till it beam like his glory.

Forget not our own brave I),vLftorsie and Gtaaur; A thousand years hence hearts shall hound at their sfcory.

And hallow the goblet that llows to their fame.

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Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, She has blazed over Ettrick eitjht ages and more; In sport we 'U attend her, in battle defend her, H'itlt heart and with hand, like our faViers before.

When the southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,

For a round them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of Bucclkugh.

Then up with tlte Banner, etc.

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.
Tin:a up with the Banner, etc.

We forget each contention of civil dissension.

And hail like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and Car;

And Elliot and Piingli in pastime shall mingle,

As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with Vie Banner, etc.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,
And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,

There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather,
And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.
Then up wWt Vie Banner, etc.

And when it is over, we 'II drink a blithe measure
To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun.

And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,
To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.
Then up with Vie Banner, etc.

Hay the Forest still nourish, both Borough and Land-
From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook;
And huzza! my brave hearts, for Buccleugu and his
For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke!

Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more;
In sport we '11 attend her, in battle defend her,
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.



Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good
To carry two visages under one hood;
What should folks say to you,who have faces such plenty,
That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty-
Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,
Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or iu youth?
Mau, woman, or child? ora dog, or a mouse!
Or are you, at once, each live tiling in the house!
Each live thing did I ask T each dead implement too!
A work-shop in your person—saw, chisel, and screw!
Above all, are you one individual TI know
You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co.
But I think you 're a troop—an assemblage—a mob—
And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job,
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse.
Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!
AbboUfora\ iZd April, 1824.

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