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"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 honoured 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.1

FROM THE SAME COLLECTION.

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."

1 [The original of this ballad also was written and composed by the Duchesse de St. Leu. The translation has been set to music by Mr. Thomson. See his Collection of Scottish Songs. 1826.]

Even when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion sweep,

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 exulting 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."

[graphic]

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; O, then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow, The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,

He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;And their jubilee shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,

In toils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,

To light the long darkness of doubt and despair; The storms he endured in our Britain's December,

The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame, In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction, Is deaf to the tale of our victories won, And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection, The shout of his people applauding his Son;By his firmness unmoved in success and disaster, By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim!With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master,

Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his name.

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