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Let him array, besides, such state
As should on princes' nuptials wait.
Ourself the cause, through fortune's spite,
That once broke short that spousal rite,
Ourself will grace, with early morn,
The bridal of the Maid of Lorn."

CONCLUSION.

Go forth, my Song, upon thy venturous way;
Go boldly forth; nor yet thy master blame,
Who chose no patron for his humble lay,

And graced thy numbers with no friendly name, Whose partial zeal might smooth thy path to fame. There was-and O! how many sorrows crowd Into these two brief words !-there was a claim

By generous friendship given-had fate allowed, It well had bid thee rank the proudest of the proud!

All angel now-yet little less than all,

While still a pilgrim in our world below! What 'vails it us that patience to recall,

Which hid its own, to soothe all other woe; What 'vails to tell, how VIRTUE's purest glow Shone yet more lovely in a form so fair;

And, least of all, what 'vails the world should know, That one poor garland, twined to deck thy hair, Is hung upon thy hearse, to droop and wither there!

CONTRIBUTIONS

ΤΟ

BORDER MINSTRELSY.

CONTRIBUTIONS

ΤΟ

BORDER MINSTRELSY.

GLENFINLAS; OR, LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.

THE simple tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (a hut built for the purpose of hunting), and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered, when two beautiful young women, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced, by the syren who attached herself particularly to him, to leave the hut; the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain consecrated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vanished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend, who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called, The Glen of the Green Women.

"O HONE a rie'! O hone a rie'!"
The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fallen Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never feared a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!

Well can the Saxon widows tell,

How, on the Teith's resounding shore,
The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.

But o'er the hills, on festal day,

How blazed Lord Ronald's Beltane tree,
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danced, with Highland glee.

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