Beyond the loose and sable neckcloth

stretch'd,

His sinewy throat seems by convulsion twitch'd,

While the tongue falters, as to utterance loth,

Sounds of dire import-watchword,

threat, and oath.

And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance

When Edward named the tune and led the dance.

Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong,

Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;

With sterner felons train'd to act more dread,

Even with the wretch by whom his fellow bled.

Then, as in plagues the foul conta gions pass,

Leavening and festering the corrupted mass,

Guilt leagues with guilt, while inutual motives draw,

Their hope impunity, their fear the law; Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same,

Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfer'd game,

Flesh the young culprit, and example leads

To darker villany, and direr deeds.

Wild howl'd the wind the forest

glades along,

And oft the owl renew'd her dismal song;

Around the spot where erst he felt the wound,

Red William's spectre walk'd his midnight round.

blighting look,

From the green marshes of the stagnant brook

The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook!

The waning moon, with storm-presaging gleam,

Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam;

The old Oak stoop'd his arms, then flung them high,

Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky;

'Twas then, that, couch'd amid the brushwood sere,

In Malwood-walk young Mansell watch'd the deer:

The fattest buck received his deadly shot,

The watchful keeper heard, and sought

with the vine,

Its tendrils in infancy curl'd, 'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine,

Whose lifeblood enlivens the world.

Though thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,

Has assumed a proportion more round,

And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,

Looks soberly now on the ground;

Enough, after absence to meet me again,

Thy steps still with ecstasy move; Enough, that those dear sober glances retain

For me the kind language of love.

THE BOLD DRAGOON.

(1812.)

'Twas a Maréchal of France, and he fain would honour gain,

And he long'd to take a passing glance at Portugal from Spain; With his flying guns, this gallant

gay,

And boasted corps d'arméeOhe fear'd not our dragoons, with their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c.

To Campo Mayor come, he had quietly sat down,

mortified air,

That your spring-time of pleasure

is flown,

Nor bid me to maids that are younger

repair

For those raptures that still are

thine own.

soldiers sack'd the town,

When, 'twas peste! morbleu !

mon General,

Hear the English bugle-call!

And behold the light dragoons, with

their long swords, boldly riding, Whack, fal de ral, &c.

'Then woman's shriek was heard in vain,

Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain

Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shrill, The snows that night that cloked the hill,

Though wild and pitiless, had still

Farmore than Southern clemency.

'Long have my harp's best notes been gone,

Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone

Their grey-hair'd master's misery. Were each grey hair a minstrel string Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, "Revenge for blood and treachery!"""

FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT.

(1814.)

(A New Song to an Old Tune.)

THOUGH right be aft put down by strength,

As mony a day we saw that, The true and leilfu' cause at length Shall bear the grie for a' that. For a' that an' a' that,

Guns, guillotines, and a' that, The fleur-de-lis, that lost her right, Is queen again for a' that!

We'll twine her in a friendly knot

With England's rose, and a' that; The shamrock shall not be forgot,

For Wellington made braw that. The thistle, though her leaf be rude, Yet faith we'll no misca' that, She shelter'd in her solitude The fleur-de-lis, for a' that.

The Austrian vine, the Prussian pine (For Blucher's sake, hurra that), The Spanish olive, too, shall join, And bloom in peace for a' that. Stout Russia's hemp, so surely twined, Around our wreath we'll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind

Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot,

Your pity scorn to thraw that,
The devil's elbow be his lot

Where he may sit and claw that.
In spite of slight, in spite of might,
In spite of brags, an' a' that,
The lads that battled for the right

Have won the day, an' a' that!
There's ae bit spot I had forgot,

A coward plot her rats had got
America they ca' that!

Their father's flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,

Atlantic winds shall blaw that, And Yankee loon, beware your croun, There's kames in hand to claw that! For on the land, or on the sea,

Where'er the breezes blaw that, The British flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a' that!

SONG

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.

(1814.)

O, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay

slaughter'd in vain,

And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,

Pitt closed in his anguish the map

of her reign!

Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit

To take for his country the safety of shame;

And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,

The shout of his people applauding his SON;