1

Who breathes the gales of Devon's shore,
The longer miss'd, bewail the more;
And thou, and I, and dear-loved R-
And one whose name I may not say,-
For not Mimosa's tender tree

2

Shrinks sooner from the touch than he,—
In merry chorus well combined,

With laughter drown'd the whistling wind.
Mirth was within; and care without
Might gnaw her nails to hear our shout.
Not but amid the buxom scene
Some grave discourse might intervene―
Of the good horse that bore him best,
His shoulder, hoof, and arching crest:
For, like mad Tom's,3 our chiefest care,
Was horse to ride, and weapon wear.

Such nights we've had; and, though the game1
Of manhood be more sober tame,

1 [Sir William Rae of St Catharine's, Bart., subsequently Lord Advocate of Scotland, was a distinguished member of the volunteer corps to which Sir Walter Scott belonged; and he, the Poet, Mr Skene, Mr Mackenzie, and a few other friends, had formed themselves into a little semi-military club, the meetings of which were held at their family supper-tables in rotation.]

2 [The gentleman whose name the Poet "might not say," will now, it is presumed, pardon its introduction. John Hay Forbes, Esq., advocate, now a Judge of the Court of Session, by the title of Lord Medwyn, was another member of this volunteer corps and club.]

3 See King Lear.

4[MS." Such nights we've had; and though our game

Advance of years may something tame."]

And though the field-day, or the drill,
Seem less important now-yet still
Such may we hope to share again.
The sprightly thought inspires my strain!
And mark, how, like a horseman true,
Lord Marmion's march I thus renew.

MARMION.

CANTO FOURTH.

The Camp.