EPILOGUE.

(1824.)

THE sages-for authority, pray look Seneca's morals, or the copy-book-The sages to disparage woman's power,

Say, beauty is a fair, but fading

flower;

I cannot tell—I've small philosophy Yet, if it fades, it does not surely die, But, like the violet, when decay'd

in bloom,

Survives through many a year in rich perfume.

Witness our theme to-night, two ages gone,

A third wanes fast, since Mary fill'd the throne.

Brief was her bloom, with scarce one sunny day,

'Twixt Pinkie's field and fatal Fotheringay:

But when, while Scottish hearts and blood you boast,

Shall sympathy with Mary's woes be lost?

O'er Mary's memory the learned quarrel,

By Mary's grave the poet plants his laurel ;

Time's echo, old tradition, makes her

name

The constant burden of his falt'ring theme;

In each old hall his grey-hair'd heralds tell

Of Mary's picture, and of Mary's cell, And show-my fingers tingle at the thought

The loads of tapestry which that poor Queen wrought.

In vain did fate bestow a double

dower

Of ev'ry ill that waits on rank and

pow'r,

Of ev'ry ill on beauty that attendsFalse ministers, false lovers, and false friends.

Spite of three wedlocks so completely curst,

They rose in ill from bad to worse, and worst ;

In spite of errors-I dare not say more. For Duncan Targe lays hand on his claymore.

In spite of all, however humours

vary,

There is a talisman in that word Mary, That unto Scottish bosoms all and

some

Is found the genuine open sesamum!
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you-forgive me-who, demure
and shy,

Gorge not each bait, nor stir at every fly,

Must rise to this, else in her ancient reign

The Rose of Scotland has survived in vain.

ON THE MATERIALS NECESSARY
FOR HIS LIFE OF NAPOLEON.'
(June, 1825.)

WHEN With Poetry dealing,
Room enough in a shieling :
Neither cabin nor hovel
Too small for a novel :
Though my back I should rub
On Diogenes' tub,

How my fancy could prance
In a dance of romance!
But my house I must swap
With some Brobdingnag chap,
Ere I grapple, God bless me with
Emperor Nap.

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day;
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras, ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede:

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd their joys and woes,

Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,
By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,
Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near,
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,

The signs the hunters know ;— With eyes of flame, and quivering ears The brake sagacious Keeldar nears; The restless palfrey paws and rears; The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot!-Halloo! Halloo ! Hunter, and horse, and hound pur

sue;

But woe the shaft that erring flew,-
That e'er it left the string!
And ill betide the faithless yew!
The stag bounds scatheless o'er the
dew,

And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound-he dies, he dies, Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound, But Keeldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death-but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite, bending low,

In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay,
In unreproachful accents say,
'The hand that took my life away,

Dear master, was it thine?

And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, Which sure some erring aim address'd, Since in your service prized, caress'd

I in your service die ;

And you may have a fleeter hound, To match the dun-deer's merry bound, But by your couch will ne'er be found So true a guard as I.'

And to his last stout Percy rued The fatal chance, for when he stood 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,

And fell amid the fray, E'en with his dying voice he cried, Had Keeldar but been at my side, Your treacherous ambush had been spied

I had not died to-day!'

Remembrance of the erring bow Long since had join'd the tides which flow,

Conveying human bliss and woe

Down dark oblivion's river; But Art can Time's stern doom arrest, And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast,

And, in her Cooper's colours drest, The scene shall live for ever.

THE FORAY.

(1830.)

THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,

And the last flask of wine in our goblet is red;

Up, up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone,

There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,

For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,

And strive to distinguish through tempest and gloom

The prance of the steed and the toss of the plume.

The

And

rain is descending; the wind rises loud;

the moon her red beacon has

veil'd with a cloud;

'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye

Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Grey!

There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane

Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ;

One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and begone!

To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the slain; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!

WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDIN

BURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.

P. 701.

'Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest.

Had we a difference with some petty isle,
Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,
Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace inight be argued :
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,
The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inherit-

This War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers to which it was addressed was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable LieutenantColonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et Posteros cogitate. 1812.

The song originally appeared in the Scots Magazine for 1802.-LOCKHART,

2 Now Viscount Melville (1831).

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE.
P. 722.

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the Family Bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.
P. 731.

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, launched from the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior to his own. The words of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: 'Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonui'; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.' 'The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gatheringplace at Inverlochy.'

MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

P. 744.

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with à belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud: and hence the Gaelic words, Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon, I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!' The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.