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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 Kintais!
This song appears to be imperfect, or at least, O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid May her captain be skilful, her mariners true, transition from one subject to another; from the In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
situation, namely, 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 glo On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,* ries of the chieftaian. The translator has endea. And 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 sost on his
A WEARY month has wandered o'er sail;
Since last we parted on the shore; Be prolonged as regret that his vassals must know,
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: Wafting onward Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail! Lachlan, of many a galley lord:
He called his kindred bands on board,
And lanched them on the main.
Clan-Gillian* is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known; Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
Rejoicing in the glory won
For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. When he saw his loved lord from his people de Wo to the hills that shall rebound part,
Clur 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
SAINT CLOUD. His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
SOFT spread the southern Summer night And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
Her veil of darkness blue; But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,
T'en 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 sighed,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride
And wreck of sweet saint Cloud.
The bugle wildly blew
Good night to Hulan and Husar,
That garrison saint Cloud.
With broken arms withdrew,
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,
The echoes of saint Cloud.
Fall light as summer-dew,
And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With princes at saint Cloud. • Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast at parting with a friend.
*i.e. 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
He feil beneath the foeman's glaive, of a manuscript collection of French songs, proba
But still, recliving 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 Folly for his hours of gayety.
Though thus he dealt in petty treason,
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, THE TROUBADOUR.
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
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.”
name. 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 os The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
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,
To each laird and each lady that wilgessed 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 Pirt join the praise of his 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
landward, Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad
From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle
pook; The rites ot' our grief and our gratitude paid,
And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUGR and
his standard, To our prince, to our heroes, levote the bright treasure,
For the king and the country, the clan and the
duke! The wisdom that planned, and the zeal that 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 Fıtrick eight ages and more, Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and in sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, GRÆME;
With heart and with hand, like our fathers before A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,
CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME, And hallow the goblet that flows 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.
Carle, now the king's come! From the brown crest of Newark its summons ex
Carle, now the king's come! tending,
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 descending,
Auld England held him lang and fast; Boundslight o’er the heather to join in the game. But Scotland's turn has come at last
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast; Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her,
Carle, now the king's come!
In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, Thought never to have seen the day;
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, The flowers ofthe forest, the bands of BuccLECGH. And busk ye for the weapon shaw!
“ Up, bairns,” she cries, “baith great and sma' Then up with the banner, &c.
Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should And match the mettle of your sires, scorn her,
Carle, now the king's come! A thousand true hearts would be cold on the 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': come! And hail, like our brethren, HOME, DOUGLAS, and Car;
“Come Haddington, the kind and gay, And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, 1'Il weep the cause if you should stay,
You've grac'd my causeway mony a day;
Carle, now the king's come!
* Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Sece weather,
+ Seat of the marquis of Lothian, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, Uncle to the duke of Buccleugh.
“Come, premier duke,* and carry doun, The Carline stopp'd; and sure I am, Frae yonder craigt his ancient croun;
For very glee had ta'en a dwam,
But Oman help'd her to a dram.-
Cogie, now the king's come! “Come, Athole, from the hill and wood,
Cogie, now the king's come! Bring down your clansmen like a cloud;
Cogie, now the king's come! Come, Morton, show the Douglass blood,
l'se be four, and ye'd be toom, Carle, now the king's come!
Cogie, now the king's come! “Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death;
TO MONSIEUR ALEXANDRE.
Or yore, in old England, it was not thought good “Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids;
To carry two visages under one hood; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; What should folks say to you, who have faces such Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids;
plenty, Carle, now the king's come!
That from under one hood you last night show'd “Come, stately Niddrief auld and true
us twenty? Girt with the sword that Minden knew;
Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth, We have ower few such lairds as you
Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth? Carle, now the king's come!
Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse? “ King Arthur's grown a common crier, Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? He's head in Fife and far Cantire,
Each live thing did I ask? each dead implement too! Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire!'s
A work-shop in your person—saw, chisel, and Carle, now the king': come!
screw? “ Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass
Above all, are you one individual? I know Between Tantallon and the Bass!!
You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co. Calton, I get on your keeking-glass,
But I think you're a troop-an assemblage a mob-
And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job, Carle, now the king's comc.'”
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, • Hamilton
+ The castle. Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse! Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble looking old man, and a Abbotsford, 230 April, 1824. Ine specimen of an ancient baron.
There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat. of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, anxiously The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the Frith I looking for the royal squadron.