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Whom brief rolling moons in six

changes have left,

Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,

To thine ear of affection, how sad

is the hail,

That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail !

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

(1815.)

(From the Gaelic.)

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er Since last we parted on the shore; Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more,

Safe on that shore again!
'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word-
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:
He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And launch'd them on the main.

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone-
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

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.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound Our banner'd bagpipes' maddening sound;

Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

Shall shake their inmost cell. Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays! The fools might face the lightning's blaze

As wisely and as well!

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SAINT CLOUD.

(Paris, September 5, 1815.)

SOFTspread the southern summer night Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light The terrace of Saint Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd,
Like breath of lover true,
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 Hussar,
That garrison Saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,

Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,
The echoes of Saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer dew,
While through the moonless air they
float,

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With Princes at Saint Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear.

The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear

Our songstress at Saint Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,— Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint Cloud.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

(1815.)

NIGHT and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo;

Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;
Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flash'd the sheets of levin-light;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouac

Where the soldier lay,

Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,

Wishing dawn of morn again,

Though death should come with day.

'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower

Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,

Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men ;Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day,

Had follow'd stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel,

Valiant Fassiefern.

Through steel and shot he leads no

more,

Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's

gore

But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,

And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell.

Lone on the outskirts of the host
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloak'd patrol their

course,

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse.

But there are sounds in Allan's ear
Patrol nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,

When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance,

And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,

When Scotland's James his march prepared

For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand,

With gestures wild and dread: The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,

Saw through their faint and shadowy form

The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead :

SONG.

'Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

'Our airy feet,

So light and fleet,

They do not bend the rye

That sinks its head when whirlwinds

rave,

And swells again in eddying wave
As each wild gust blows by ;
But still the corn,

At dawn of morn,

Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste

A trampled paste

Of blackening mud and gore.

'Wheel the wild dance
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

'Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France,

For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide

For martial pride,

For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier!

Room for the men of steel!
Through crest and plate
The broadsword's weight

Both head and heart shall feel.

'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

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ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

(1815.)

(From the French of Hortense Beauharnois, Ex-Queen of Holland.)

It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orisons before

Saint Mary's shrine :

'And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' was still the soldier's

prayer,

"That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.'

His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword,

And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord;

Where, faithful to his noble vow, his

war-cry fill'd the air,

'Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.'

They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said,

The heart that has for honour beat

by bliss must be repaid. My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair,

For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.'

And then they bound the holy knot

before Saint Mary's shrine, That makes a paradise on earth, if

hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright, that

were in chapel there, Cried,' Honour'd be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!'

THE TROUBADOUR.

(1815.)

(From the French of Hortense Beauharnois.)

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his Lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good

morrow:

'My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true-love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.'

And while he march'd with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung, As, faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel-burden still he sung: 'My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour.' Even when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his

way,

'Mid splintering lance and falchionsweep,

And still was heard his warrior-lay: '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, But still reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exuiting stave: 'My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.'

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When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew,

For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border,

The Flowers of the Forest, the
Bands of Buccleuch.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no

spearmen surround;

But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,

A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

We forget each contention of civil dissension,

And hail, like our brethren, Home,

Douglas, and Car:

And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle,

As welcome in peace as their fathers in war.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather,

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall,

There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at football.

Then up with the Banner, &c. And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure

To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun,

And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure,

To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won.

Then up with the Banner, &c.

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