Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?'
'O, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men,

Three days we 've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

His horsemen hard behind us ride ;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?'

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
'I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :-

It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men ;

Their trampling sounded nearer.

O haste thee, haste!' the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.'

Lord Allin's Daughter.

In a ballad entitled "Duncan," printed by Herd, are some vigorous and beautiful stanzas, which describe the meeting of the lover and the uncle of a lady who has been taken from her "old home: "

The rose I pluckt o' right is mine,

Our hearts together grew

Like twa sweet roses on ae stalk;
Frae hate to love they flew.'

He stampt his foot upo' the ground,
And thus in wrath did say.
God strike my saul, if frae this field,
We baith in life shall gae.'

He wav'd his hand, the pipers play'd,
The targets clatter'd round;
And now between the meeting faes
Was little space of ground.

But wha is she that runs sae fast?
Her feet nae stap they find;
Sae swiftly rides the milky cloud,
Upo' the summer's wind.

Her face a mantle screen'd afore,
She show'd of lily hue;

Sae frae the grey mist breaks the sun,
To drink the morning dew.

Alack! my friends; what sight is this?

O stap your rage,' she cry'd;

Whar love with honey'd lips should be,
Mak not a breach sae wide.'

IR AGILTHORN. This ballad is the production of Matthew Gregory Lewis; and our principal motive in introducing it into this collection is to supply an example of his compositions, for its merits are not such as to warrant the selection upon other grounds. His writings, although now nearly forgotten, had, at one period, no inconsiderable influence upon the literature of the age; the success that attended his publications induced a host of imitators, and, for awhile, his "school" may be almost said to have formed the taste of the country. But the unnatural will be always the ephemeral; and that which is not based upon Truth, Time will be certain to destroy. With the exception of two or three of his more romantic ballads. -"Alonzo the Brave and Fair Imogene," and, perhaps, " Osric the Lion"-the poems of Lewis are as completely consigned to oblivion as if they had never been printed; even his vain and useless "Romances," which have passed through numerous editions, are now seldom read; and are re-published only by caterers for the meretricious or the vicious. Merit of a particular order he undoubtedly had; public attention is never obtained, even for a season, without it; but his works possessed very little of real value, and the world has lost nothing by the obscurity into which they have sunk. He was "the first to introduce something like the German taste into English fictitious, dramatic, and poetical composition;" and no less an authority than Sir Walter Scott considers that he did service to our literature by shewing, that "the prevailing taste of Germany might be employed as a formidable auxiliary to renewing the spirit of our own, upon the same system as when medical persons attempt, by the transfusion of blood, to pass into the veins of an aged and exhausted patient, the vivacity of the circulation and liveliness of sensation which distinguish a young subject." It is certain, that at the period in which he "flourished," English literature had become sluggish, inert, and comparatively valueless; while "the realms of Parnassus," more especially, seemed to lie open to the first bold invader, whether he should be a daring usurper, or could shew a legitimate title of sovereignty.* Lewis was "born to fortune;" his father held the lucrative appointment of under-secretary at war; and he was himself a member of parliament as soon as his age permitted him to occupy a seat. During a residence in Germany, he had opportunities of indulging his inclination for the marvellous; and he and his imitators, towards the close of the last century, absolutely flooded the libraries of Great Britain with their tales of enchantment and diablerie, in poetry and prose. Lewis's publications are the romances of "The Monk," "Feudal Tyrants," and "Romantic Tales;" "Tales of Wonder" and "Tales of Terror," in verse; "The Castle Spectre" and "Adelmorn," romantic dramas; "Venoni," a tragedy; a volume

"Lewis was a martinet, if I may so term him, in the accuracy of rhymes and of numbers; I may add he had a right to be so, for few persons have exhibited more mastery of rhyme, or greater command over the melody of verse." "His works were admired, and the author became famous, not merely through his own merit, though that was of no mean quality, but because he had in some measure taken the public by surprise, by using a style of composition, which, like national melodies, is so congenial to the general taste, that though it palls by being much hackneyed, it has only to be for a short time forgotten in order to recover its original popularity."-SIR WALTER SCOTT.