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This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread,
«O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow Thy wayward notes of wail and woe Far down the desert of Glencoe,
Where none may list their melody? Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly, Or to the dun deer glancing by, Or to the eagle that from high
Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy ?»
« No, not to these, for they have rest,-The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security. But those for whom I pour the lay, Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray, Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.
THE RETURN TO ULSTER. ONCE again, but how changed since my wanderings
beganI have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann, And the pines of Cambrassil resound to the roar, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore. Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn; With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return? Can I live the dear life of delusion again, That flow'd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain?
« Their flag was furld, and mute their drum, The very household dogs were dumb, Unwont to bay at guests that come
In guise of hospitality.
To tend her kindly housewifery.
« The liand that mingled in the meal,
Meed for his hospitality!
Their red and fearful blazonry.
It was then that around me, though poor and unknown,
« Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shrill, The snows that night that choked the bill, Though wild and pitiless, had still
Far more than southron clemency.
« Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone
Their gray-baird master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
Revenge for blood and treachery!'»
Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart
• In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is! called the Sunburst, an epithet feebly rendered by the San-beam of Macpherson,
PROLOGUE TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND. "T is sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russel, wail and die; *T is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the car;
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should Link'd as they come with every tender tie,
boil: Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his boonail,
And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail. Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail ; Or till Acadia's' winter-felter'd soil,
Be prolong’d as regret that his vassals must know, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten's eyes, Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe: And as he bears, what dear illusions rise!
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale, It opens on his soul his native dell,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! | The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;
To measure the seas and to study the skies: The cot beneath whose simple porchi were told, May be hoist all his canvas from streamer to deck, By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him backThe infant group that hush'd their sports the while, Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale, And the dear maid who listend with a smile. Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail' The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again. Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
OF THE PRECEDING SONG.
So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people depart And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Now mute on thy mountains, 0 Albyn, are heard Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail
Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the band, By Mall's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
Or its strings are but waked by the stern winter gak, The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief of hical Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night From the far southland border a minstrel came forta, Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
And he waited the hour that some bard of the Dorth Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give
His hand on the harp of the ancient should east, Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
And bid its wild numbers mix bigh with the blast; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael, The filial token of a daughter's love!
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.
FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,
FROM THE GAELIC.
And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclair,
The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic la vain, the bright course of thy talents to wre. air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull Fate deadend thine car and imprison'd thy tongue upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore dis- For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose tinct from the ordinary jorrains, or boat-songs. They The glow of the genius they could not oppose , were composed by the family bard upon the departure Aud who in the land of the Saxon or Gael, of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge Might match with Mackenzie, Higla Chief of Kintu in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1918. 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 il To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Of the hue of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the Chief of katil
And thou, goatle dame, who must bear to the mai O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chane May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,
1 Bonail', or Bonaller, the old Scottish phrase for 1> Acadia, or Nova Scotia.
parting with a friend.
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, -
Shall be a wedded pair,
She fairest of the fair.>>
Before Saint Mary's shrine,
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 !»
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.
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;
TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE.
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.