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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.”
Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony !
By every deed in song enrolled,
For Albion's weal in battle bold;
By all their names, a mighty spell!
Arise, the mighty strain to tell!
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
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;
Yet all was but a dream:
So it was quickly gone;
But coldly dwell alone.
My fancy shall beguile,
By gesture, look, or smile:
Till it has fairly flown,
I'll rather freeze alone.
In cheek, or chin, or brow,
As weak as woman's vow:
That is but lightly won;
And learn to live alone.
The diamond's ray abides,
The gem its lustre hides;
And glowed a diamond stone,
I'll darkling dwell alone.
With dies so bright and vain,
* The Galgacus of Tacitus,
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,
Their gray-haired master's misery.
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,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.
Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
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.
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
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
The filial token of a daughter's love!
FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE, « The hand that mingled in the meal,
HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.
FROM THE GAELIC.
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,
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 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
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
SOFT spread the southern Summer night
Ten thousand stars combined to light
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
And wreck of sweet saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
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 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
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 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,
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
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
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.
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;
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;
But Scotland's turn has come at last-
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! -
Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!
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,
Carle, now the king's come!
“ 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.