No more I'll pay so dear for wit,

l'll live upon mine own; Nor shall wild passion trouble it,

I'll rather dwell alone. And thus I'll hush my heart to rest,

“ 'Thy loving labours lost; Thou shalt no more be wildly blest,

To be so strangely crost; The widowed turtles mateless die.

The phænix is but one; They seek no loves-no more will I

I'll rather dwell alone.”

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Nor through the pines with whistling change,

Mimic the harp's wild harmony !
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
“O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or tell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;
From Coilgach,* first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.
“ By all their swords, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Arise, the mighty strain to tell!
For fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!”—
The wind is hushed, and still the lake-

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years“ When targets clashed, and bugles rung, And blades round warriors' heads were flung, The foremost of the band were we, And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!”

THE RESOLVE. IN IMITATION OF AN OLD ENGLISH POEM.-1809. My wayward fate I needs must plain,

Though bootless be the theme;
I loved, and was beloved again,

Yet all was but a dream:
For, as her love was quickly got,

So it was quickly gone;
No more l'll bask in flame so hot,

But coldly dwell alone.
Not maid more bright than maid was e'er

My fancy shall beguile,
By flattering word, or feigned fear,

By gesture, look, or smile:
No more l'll call the shaft fair shot,

Till it has fairly flown,
Nor scorch me at a flame so hot;

I'll rather freeze alone.
Each ambushed Cupid I'll defy,

In cheek, or chin, or brow,
And deem the glance of woman's eye

As weak as woman's vow:
I'll lightly hold the lady's heart,

That is but lightly won;
I'll steel my breast to beauty's art,

And learn to live alone.
The flaunting torch soon blazes out,

The diamond's ray abides,
The flame its glory hurls about,

The gem its lustre hides;
Such gem l fondly deemed was mine,

And glowed a diamond stone,
But, since each eye may see it shine,

I'll darkling dwell alone.
No waking dream shall tinge my thought

With dies so bright and vain,
No silken net, so slightly wrought,
Shall tangle me again:

* The Galgacus of Tacitus,


At the Burial Place of the family of Mis: Scward.
Amin these aisles, where once his precepts showed
The heavenward path-way which in life he trod,
This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;
For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.
Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble

spread, In female grace the willow droops her head; Why on her branches, silent and unstrung, The minstrel harp is emblematic hung; What poet's voice is smothered here in dust, | Till waked to join the chorus of the just,Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies, Honoured, beloved, and mourned, here Seward

lies! Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship Go seek her genius in her living lay.

THE RETURN TO ULSTER. ONCE again, but how changed since my wander

ings began I 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 buru? With the scenes of my youth can its raptures re

turn? Can I live the dear life of delusion again, That flow'd when these echoes first mixed with

my strain? It was then that around me, though poor and un

known, High spells of mysterious enchantment were

thrown; The streams were of silver, of diamond the dev, The land was an Eden, for fancy was new. I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their

lyre; To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear, But a vision of noontide, distinguished and clear. Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the cail, And renewed the wild pomp of the chase and the

ball; And the standard of Fion flashed fierce from on

high, Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh."

• In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-bcam of Macpherson,


It seemed that the harp of green Erin once more I“ Long have my harp's best notes been gone,
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.-! Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, should'st They can but sound in desert lone
thou burn?

Their gray-haired master's misery.
They were days of delusion, and cannot return. Were each gray hair a minstrel string,
But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood Each chord should imprecations fling,

Till startled Scotland loud should ring, And listed my lay, while she turned from mine eye?

• Revenge for blood and treachery ! » Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted to dew?

PROLOGUE Oh! would it bad been so!-0! would that ber eye Had been but a star-glance that shot through the TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND. sky,

'Tis sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, And her voice, that was moulded to melody's Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die; thril

'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Had been but a zephyr that sighed and was still! [ Of distant music, dying on the ear; Oh! would it had been so !--not then his poor But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, heart

We list the legends of our native land,
Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to part; | Linked as they come with every tender tie,
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,

Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding

Wake keen remembrance in each bardy son.

Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, on, “ Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your

Or till Arcadia's* winter-fettered soil, train,

He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes, And restore me the dream ofmy spring tide again!” 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; ON THE MASSACRE OF GLENCOE.

Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, “ O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow

The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; Thy wayward notes of wail and wo

The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, Far down the desert of Glencoe,

By gray-haired patriarch, the tales of old, Where none may list their melody?

The infant group that hushed their sports the while, Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,

And the dear maid who listened with a smile. Or to the dun deer glancing by,

The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Or to the eagle that from high

Is denizea of Scotland once again. Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, “ No, not to these, for they have rest,

And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind? The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,

Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page The stag his Jair, the erne her nest,

Each tyrant passion shows his wo and rage,

I Has felt the wizard influence they inspire.
Abode of lone security.
But those for whom I pour the lay,

And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain gray,

Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,

By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale. Could screen from treacherous cruelty.

The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,

| Points to the fatal rock amid the roar " Their flag was furled, and mute their drum,

Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night The very household dogs were dum,

Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Unwont to bay at guests that come

Proudly preferred that first our efforts give In guise of hospitality.

Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; His blithest notes the piper plied,

More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,

The filial token of a daughter's love!
The dame her distaff Aung aside,
To tend her kindly housewifery.

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, « The hand that mingled in the meal,

At midnight drew the felon steel,

And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful The friendly hearth which warmed that hand.

armed that hand. | Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the At midnight armed it with the brand,

double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which

is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorams, or That bade destruction's flames expand Their red and fearful blazonry.

boat-songs. They were composed by the family

bard upon the departure of the earl of Seaforth, " Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an Nor infancy's uopitied plain,

unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the More than the warrior's groan, could gain Stuart family, in the year 1718.

Respite from ruthless butelery! The winter wind that whistled shrill,

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great earl of the North, The snows that night that choaked the hill, The lord of Lochcarton, Glenshiel, and Seaforth; Though wild and pitiless, had still Far more than southron clemency.

· Arcadia, or Nova Scotia.

To the chieftain this morning his course who began,

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN, Lanching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,

FROM THE GAELIC. Farewell to Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!

This song appears to be imperfect, or at least, O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew, like many of the early Gaelie poems, makes a rapid May her captain be skilful, her mariners true, transition from one subjeet to another; from the In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,

situation, narnely, of one of the daughters of the Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence should boil:

of her lover, to an eulogium over the military gloOn the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bopnail,* ries of the chieftaian. The translator bas endeaAnd farewell to Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail! voured to imitate the abrupt style of the original Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his

A WEARY month has wandered o'er

Since last we parted on the shore; sail; Be prolonged as regret that his rassals must know,l.

Heaven! that I saw thee, Love, once more, Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their wo:

Safe on that shore again!-Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,

'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word:

Lachlan, ot many a galley lord: Wafting onward Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!

He called his kindred bands on board,
Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,

And lanched them on the main.
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May he hoist all his canvass from streamer to deck,

Clan-Gillian* is to ocean gone;
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him back-

Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known; Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,

Rejoicing in the glory won Shall welcome Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!

In many a bloody broil:

For wide is heard the thundering fray,

The rout, the ruin, the dismay,

When from the twilight glens away
So sung the old bard, in the grief of his heart,

Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. When he saw his loved lord from his people de Wo to the hills that shall rebound part,

Cur bannered bagpipes' maddening sound; Now mute on thy mountains, O Albyn, are heard Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round, Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the bard; Shall shake their inmost cell. Or its strings are but waked by the stern winter Wo to the bark whose crew shall gaze, gale,

Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays; As they mourn for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail. The fools might face the lightning's blaze From the far southland border a minstrel came As wisely and as well!

forth, And he waited the hour that some bard of the north

His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,

SOFT spread the southern Summer night
And bid ils wild numbers mix high with the blast; Her veil of darkness blue;
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,

Ten thousand stars combined to light
To lament for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail.

The terrace of saint Cloud. And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,

The evening breezes gently sigbed, Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame?

Like breath of lover true, No, son of Fitzgerald! in accents of wo,

Bewailing the deserted pride
The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,

And wreck of sweet saint Cloud.
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,

The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Husar,
Fate deadened thine ear and imprisoned thy tongue;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose

That garrison saint Cloud.
The glow of the genius they could not oppose; The startled Naiads from the shade
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,

With broken arms withdrew,
Might match with Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail? And silenced was that proud cascade,
Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,

The glory of saint Cloud. All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;

We sate upon its steps of stone, What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell

Nor could its silence rue,
In the spring-time of youth and of promise they When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of saint Cloud.
Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male, Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
To bear the proud name of the chief of Kintail.

Fall light as summer-dew,
And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief, While through the moonless air they float,
For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief, Prolonged from fair saint Cloud.
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,

And sure a melody more sweet Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,

His waters never knew, To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail,

Though music's self was wont to meet That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

With princes at saint Cloud. • Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for al feast at parting with a friend.

T ine. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,

“ My arm it is my country's right, The circle round her drew,

My heart is in my lady's bower; Than ours, when gathered round to hear

Resolved for love and fame to fight, Our songstress at saint Cloud.

I come, a gallant Troubadour.” Few happy hours poor mortals pass,

Even when the battle-roar was deep, Then give those hours their due,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way And rank among the foremost class

Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, Our evenings at saint Cloud.

And still was heard his warrior-lay; Paris, Sept. 5, 1815.

« My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;

For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field
The original of this little Romance makes part

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, of a manuscript collection of French songs, proba

But still, reclining on his shield, bly compiled by some young officer, which was

Expiring sung the exulting stave: found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained

“ My life it is my country's right, with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate

My heart is in my lady's bower; what had been the fate of its late owner. The

For love and fame to fall in fight, song is popular in France, and is rather a good

Becomes the valiant 'Troubadour." specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

FROM THE FRENCH. It was Dunois, the young and brave,

It chanced that Cupid on a season, Was bound for Palestine,

By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But first he made his orisons

But could not settle whether Reason Before saint Mary's shrine:

Or Folly should partake his bed. “ And grant, immortal queen of heaven,” Was still the soldier's prayer,

What does he then ?-upon my life, “ That I may prove the bravest knight,

'Twas bad example for a deity

He takes me Reason for his wife.
And love the fairest fair.”

And Folly for his hours of gayety.
His oath of honour on the shrine
He graved it with his sword,

Though thus he dealt in petty treason,
And followed to the holy land

He loved them both in equal measure; . The banner of his lord;

Fidelity was Lorn of Reason, Where, faithful to his noble vow,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure. His war-cry filled the air, “ Be honoured aye the bravest knight,

SONG, Beloved the fairest fair."

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT They owed the conquest to his arm,

CLUB OF SCOTLAND. And then his liege-lord said,

O DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the “ The heart that has for honour beat,

omen, By bliss must be repaid,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in My daughter Isabel and thou

vain, Shall be a wedded pair,

And, beholding broad Europe bowed down by her For thou art bravest of the brave,

foemen, She fairest of the fair.”

PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! And then they bound the holy knot

Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave Before saint Mary's shrine,

spirit, That makes a paradise on earth,

To take for his country the safety of shame; If hearts and hands combine:

O then in her triumph remember his merit, And every lord and lady bright

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name. That were in chapel there,

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the Cried, “ Honoured be the bravest knight,

furrow, Beloved the fairest fair!"

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,

He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, THE TROUBADOUR.

And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain; GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,

He may die ere his children shall reap in their A Troubadour that hated sorrow,

gladness, Beneath his lady's window came,

But the blith harvest-home shall remember his And thus he sung his last good-morrow:

claim, “ My arm it is my country's right,

And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadMy heart is in my true love's bower;

ness, Gayly for love and fame to fight

While they hallow the goblet that flows to his Befits the gallant Troubadour."

Dame. And while he marched with helm on head Tho' anxious and timeless his life was expended, And harp in hand, the descant rung,

In toils for our country preserved by his care, As faithful to his favourite maid,

Tho' he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended, The minstrel-burthen still he sung:

To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;

The storms he endured in our Britain's December, There are worse things in life than a tumble as The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ereame,

heather, In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember, And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. And hallow the goblet that flows to his dame.

Then up with the banner, &c. Nor forget his gray head, who, all dark in affliction, And when it is over, we'll drink a blith measure

Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, 1 To each laird and each lady that witnessed our And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, fun,

The shout of his people applauding his son; And to every blith hcart that took part in our pleaBy his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

sure, By his long reign of virtue, reinember his claim! To the lads that have lost and the lads that have With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his

won. master,

Then up with the banner, &c. Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his May the forest still flourish, both borough and name,

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

nd chance the sad! From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle

nook; measure The rites ot' our grief and our gratitude paid, And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUGR and To our prince, to our heroes, devote the bright

his standard, treasure,

| For the king and the country, the clan and the

hot The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that

duke! obeyed!

Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory, She has blazed over Fitrick eighi ages and more, Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, GREME;

With heart and with hand, like our jathers before A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,

CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME, And hallow the goblet that Aows to their fame. BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING,

The news has flown frae mouth to mouth,

The north for anes has bang'd the south;

The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

Carle, now the king's come.
At a great Foot-ball Match on Carterhaugh.


Carle, now the king's come! FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons ex

Carle, now the king's come! tending,

Thou shalt dance and I will sing, Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame;

Carle, now the king's come! And each forester blith, from his mountain descend

" Auld England held him lang and fast;
er the heath

And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;

But Scotland's turn has come at last-
Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her, Carle, now the king's come!
She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray
In sport we'll attend her, in buttle defend her, Thought never to have seen the day;
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before. He's been a weary time away,
When the southern invader spread waste and dis-

But, Carle, now the king's come!

She's skirling frae the Castle Hill At the glance of her crescents he paused and The carline's voice is grown sae shrill withdrew,

Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill, For around them were marshalled the pride of the Carle, now the king's come! border,

“Up, bairns,” she cries, “baith great and sma' The flowers of the forest, the bands of BUCCLEUGH. Lan

And busk ye for the weapon shaw! -
Then up with the banner, &c.

Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!
A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her, Carle, now the king's come!
No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen “Come, from Newbattle'st ancient spires.

But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should | And match the mettle of your sires,

Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, scorn her, A thousand true hearts would be cold on the

Carle, now the king's come! ground.

“ You're welcome hame, my Montague!! Then up with the banner, &c.

Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh;

I'm missing some that I may rue,
We forget each contention of civil dissention,

Carle, now the king's come!
And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, - Come Haddington, the kind and gay,

and Car;
And Elliot and PRINGLE in pastime shall mingle. I You've grac'd my causeway mony a day;
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

“ I'll weep the cause if you should stay, Then up with the banner, &c.

Carle, now the king's come! Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the land. in mucusta 1822 "Am. Pub

Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Sede weather,

+ Seat of the marquis of Lothian, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, Uncle to the duke of Buccleugh.

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