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MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current liiglı,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.

AIR-Cha till mi tuille."

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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 a belief, which the event verified, that lie was to be slain in the approaching feud; and tence the Gaelic words, « Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon, « 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.

'T is blithe along the midnight tide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like genii, arm'd with fiery spears.

'T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's ' lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ;3
While the gay tapers cheerly shinc,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, « Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming,
Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming;
Farewell lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river,
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL.

AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.

« Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell !-and for ever-
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never !
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me;
But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not

shiver,
Though devoted I go-to return again never!

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.

The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

« Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land! to the shores, whepce unwilling we sever,
Return-return-return-shall we never,

Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille !
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon!»

The sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,

Io Etirick's vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me?

ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.

On Ettrick Forest's mountains dun,
'T is blithe to hear the sportsman's gun,
And seek the heath-frequenting brood
Far through the noon-day solitude;
By many a cairn and trenched mound,
Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where gray-hair'd shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tubeless chord,

How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers,

To feverish pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'T is blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;

1. We return no more..

• Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been engaged with some friends.

* Alwyn, the sent of the Lord Somerville, now, alas! untenanted, by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the author's nearest neighbour and intimate friend, · Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time.

THE MAID OF ISLA.

AIR--The Maid of Isla. Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

Air-Ymdaith Mionge. Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky, Dost thou not see yon little skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly? Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,

And steep'd hier leeward deck in foam, Why does she war unequal urge?

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

Ethelrid, or Olfrid, king of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, aud destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wine gleams through mist and spray, Against the storm-clad, louring dark,

As to the rock she wheels away ;Where clouds are dark and billows rave,

Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?

O maid of Isla, 't is her home.

When the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled pun and friar gray
March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye :
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine !

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in thy love, or in his grave,

Must Alan Vourich find his home.

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled :
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel whallow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

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THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;

OR

THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN.

WRITTEN IN 1817.
O, for a glance of that gay Muse's eye,

That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale,
And (winkled with a lustre shrewd and sly,

When Giam Battista bade her vision hail!! Yet fear not, ladies, the naïve detail

Given by the natives of that land canorous; Italian license loves to leap the pale,

We Britons have the fear of shame before us, And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.

Physicians soon arrived, sage, ware, and tried,

As e'er scrawld jargon in a darken'd room; With heedful glance the Sultaun's tongue they eyed, Peep'd in his bath, and God knows where beside,

And then in solemn accents spoke their doom, « His majesty is very far from well.» Then cach to work with his specific fell : The Hakim Ibrahim instanter brought His unguent Mahazzim al Zerdukkaut," While Roompot, a practitioner more wily, Relied on his Munaskif al fillfily. More and yet more in deep array appear, And some the front assail and some the rear: Their remedies to reinforce and vary, Came surgeon eke, and eke apothecary; Till the tired monarch, though of words grown chary, Yet dropt, to recompense their fruitless labour, Some hint about a bowstring or a sabre. There lack d, I promise you, no longer speeches, To rid the palace of those learned leechies.

In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived Sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they perform'd their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears received the same unvaried phrase,
« Sultaun! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!»
All have their tastes—this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
Or, when the toil of state no more annoys,
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys-
I love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay-
Such monarchs best our free-born humours suit,
But despots must be stately, stern, and mute.

Theo was the council call'd-by their advice,
(They deem'd the matter ticklish all, and nice,

And sought to shift it off from their own shoulders),
Tatars and couriers in all speed were sent,
To call a sort of castern parliament

Of feudatory chieftains and freeholdersSuch have the Persians at this very day, My gallant Malcolm calls them couroultai;? I'm not prepared to show in this slight song That to Serendib the same forms belong,Een let the learn'd go search, and tell me if I'm wrong.

This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway-
And where's Serendib? may some critic say-
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
Jf Rennell has it not, you 'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in Captain Sindbad's map,-
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,
Till, fain to find a guest who thought them shorter,
He deign'd to tell them over to a porter-
The last edition see by Long. and Co.,
Rees, Hurst, and Orme, our fathers in the Row.

The Omrahs, each with hand on scymitar,
Gave, like Sempronius, still their voice for var-
« The sabre of the Sultaun in its sheath
Too long has slept, nor own'd the work of death;
Let the Tambourgi bid his sigarl rattle,
Bang the loud gong, and raise the shout of battle!
This dreary'cloud that dims our sovereign's day
Shall from his kindled bosom flit away,
When the bold Lootie wheels luis courser round,
And the arm'd elephant shall shake the ground.
Each noble pants to own the glorious summons-
And for the charges--Lo! your faithful Commons !»
The Riots who attended in their places

(Serendib-language calls a farmer Riot) Look'd ruefully in one another's faces,

From this oration auguring much disquiet, Double assessment, forage, and free quarters : And fearing these as China-men the Tartars, Or as the whisker'd vermin fear the mousers, Each fumbled in the pocket of his trowsers.

Serendib found, deem not my tale a fiction-
This Sultaun, wiietber lacking contradiction-
(A sort of stimulant which hath its uses,
To raise the spirits and reform the juices,
Sovereigo specific for all sort of cures
In my wife's practice, and perhaps in yours),
The Sultaun lacking this same wholesome bitter,
Or cordial smooth, for prince's palate fitter-
Or if some Mollah had hag his dreams
With Degial, Ginnistan, and such wild themes
Belonging to the Mollah's subtle craft,
I wot not-but the Sultaun never laughid,
Scarce ate or drank, and took a melancholy
That scorn'd all remedy, profane or holy;
In his long list of melancholies, mad,
Or mazed, or dumb, hath Burton none so bad.

And next came forth the reverend Convocation,

Bald heads, white beards, and many a turban green, Imaum and Mollah there of every station,

Santon, Fakir, and Calendar were seen.
Their votes were various-some advised a Mosque

With fitting revenues should be erected,
With seemly gardens and with gay Kiosque,
To recreate a band of priests selected;

For these hard words see d'Herbelot, or the learned editor of the Recipes of Avicenna.

· See Sir Jobn Malcolm's admirable History of Persia. 3 Nobility.

• The hint of the following tale is taken from La Camiscia Magica, a novel of Giam Batista Casti,

1оу

Others opined that through the realms a dole

Try we the Giaours, these men of coat and cap, I Be made to holy men, whose prayers might profit Incline to think some of them must be happy; The Sultaun's weal in body and in soul ;

At least they have as fair a cause as any can,
But their long-headed chief, the Sheik Ul-Sofit, They drink good wine, and keep no Ramazan.
More closely touchid the point :—« Thy studious mood,» Then north ward, lio!» The vessel cuts the sea,
Quoth he, « () prince! hath thicken'd all thy blood, And fair Italia lies upon hier lee.-
And dull'd thy brain with labour beyond measure;

But fair Italia, she who once unfurld
Wherefore relax a space and take thy pleasure,

Her eagle banners o'er a conquer'd world, And with beauty or tell o'er thy treasure ;

Long from her throne of domination tumbled, From all the cares of state, my liege, enlarge thee, Lay, by ber quondam vassals, sorely humbled; And leave the burthen to thy faithful clergy.»

The Pope himself look'd pensive, pale, and lean,

And was not half the man he once had been. These counsels sage availed not a whit,

« While these the priest and those the noble fleeces, And so the patient (as is not uncommon

Our poor old boot,»' they said, « is torn to pieces. Where grave physicians lose their time and wit) Its tops: the vengeful claws of Austria feel, Resolved to take advice of an old woman;

And the Great Devil is rending toe and lieel.3
His mother she, a dame who once was beauteous, Jf happiness you seek, to tell you truly,
And still was call'd so by cach subject duteous. We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli;
Now, whether Fatima was witch in earnest,

A tramontane, a heretic, - the buck,
Or only made believe, I cannot say—

Poffaredio! still has all the luck ; But she profess'd to cure disease the sternest,

By land or ocean never strikes his flagBy dint of magie amulet or lay;

And ther--a perfect walking money-bag.” And, when all other skill in vain was shown,

Off set our prince to seek John Bull's abode, She deem'd it fitting time to use her own.

But first look France-it lay upon the road.

« Sympathia magica hath wonders done,»

Monsieur Baboou, after much late commotion, (Thus did old Fatima bespeak her son),

Was apitated like a selling ocean, « It works upon the fibres and the pores,

Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, And thus, insensibly, our health restores,

Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; And it must help us here.-Thou must endure Besides, some tumours on his noddle biding, The ill, my son, or travel for the cure,

Gave indication of a recent hiding.4 Search land and sea, and get, where'er you can, Our prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedThe inmost vesture of a happy man,

Jess, I mean his shirt, my son, which, taken warm

Thought it a thing indelicate and needless And fresh from off his back, shall chase your harm, To ask, if at that moment he was happy, Bid every current of your veins rejoice,

And Monsieur, secing that he was comme il faut, a And your dull heart leap light as shepherd-boy's.» Loud voice muster'd up, for « Vive le Roi!» Such was the counsel from his mother came.

Then whisperd, « Ave you any news of Nappy!» I know not if she had some under-game,

The Sultaun answerd him with a cross question, As doctors have, who bid their patients roam

« Pray, can you tell mc auglit of one John Bull, Apl live abroad, when sure to die at home ;

That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool ?» Or if she thought, that, somehow or another,

The
query

seem'd of difficult digestion, Queen Regent sounded better than Queen Mother; The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his souff, But, says the Chronicle (who will go look it?)

And found his whole good breeding scarce enough. That such was her advice the Sultaun took it.

Twitching his visage into as many puckers All are on board-the Sultaun and his train,

As damsels wont to put into their tuckers In gilded galley prompt to plough the main :

(Ere liberal Fashion damn'd both lace and lawn, The old Rais : was the first who question'd, «Whi- And bade the veil of modesty be drawn), ther?»

Replied the Frenchman, after a brief pause, They paused —« Arabia,» thought the pensive prince, « Jean Bool!-I vas not know him-yes, I vas« Was call'a The Happy many ages since

I vas remember dat von year or two, For Mokha, Rais. n-- And they came safely thither. I saw him at von place cail'd VaterlooBut not in Araby with all her balm,

Ma foi! il s'est très-joliment battu, Nor where Judæa weeps beneath her palm,

Dat is for Englishman,-m'entendez-vous ? Not in rich Egypt, not in Nubian waste,

But den he had wit him von damn son-gun, Could there the step of Happiness be traced.

Rogue I no like-dey call him Vellington.»
One Copt alone profess'd to have seen her smile, Monsieur's politeness could not hide his fret,
When Bruce his goblet fill'd at infant Nile;

So Solimaun took leave and cross'd the streight.
She bless'd the dauntless traveller as he quaffd,
But vanish'd from him with the ended draught.

1 The well-known resemblance of Italy in the map.

2 Florence, Venice, etc. Enough of turbans,» said the weary king, « These dolimans of ours are not the thing;

3 The Calabrias, infested by hands of assassins. One of the

leaders was called Fra Diavolo, i, e. Brother Devil. I Master of the vessel.

* Or drubbing, so called in the Slang dictionary.

John Bull was in his very worst of moods,
Raving of sterile farms and unsold goods ;
His sugar-loaves and bales about he threw,
And on his counter beat the devil's tattoo.
His wars were ended, and the victory won,
But then 't was reckoning-day with honest John,
And authors vouch 't was still this worthy's way,
« Never to grumble till he came to pay;
And then he always thinks, his temper's such,
The work too little, and the pay too much,»!
Yet, grumbler as he is, so kind and hearly,

That when his mortal foe was on the floor,

And past the power to harm his quiet more, Poor John had well nigh wept for Bonaparte! Such was the wight whom Solimaun salam d, « And who are you,» John answer'd, « and be d-d ?»

She bade him a sit into the fire,» and took
Her dram, her cake, her kebbock from the nook ;
Ask d him «about the news from eastern parts;
And of her absent bairns, puir Highland hearts !
If peace brought down the price of tea and pepper,
And if the nitmugs were grown ony cheaper ?
Were there nae speerings of our Mungo Park-
Ye'll be the gentleman that wants the sark?
If ye wad buy a web o' auld wife's spinning,
I'll warrant ye it's a weel-wearing linen.»

Then up got Peg, and round the house 'gan scuttle,

In search of goods her customer to nail, Until the Sultaun strain'd his princely throttle,

And hollow'd, -« Ma'am, that is not what I ail. Pray, are you happy, ma'am, in this snug glen ?» « Happy!» said Pey; << What for d'

ye

want to ken ? Besides, just think upon this by-gane year,

Grain wadna pay the yoking of the pleugh.» « What say you to the present?»—« Meal 's sae dear,

To mak their brose my bairns have scarce aneugh.» « The devil take the shirt,» said Solimaun, «I think my quest will end as it began. Farewell, ma'am; nay, no ceremony, I beg— » « Ye 'll no be for the linen then ?» said Peg.

« A stranger, come to see the happiest man,-
So, seignior, all avouch,-in Frangistan.»—?

Happy! my tenants breaking on my hand ?
Unstock'd my pastures, and untill'd my land ;
Sugar and rum a drug, and mice and moths
The sole consumers of my good broad-cloths-
Happy! why, cursed war and racking tax
Have left us scarcely raiment to our backs.»
« In that case, Seignior, I may

take

my leave; I came to ask a favour-hut I grieve--> « Favour?» said John, and eyed the Sultaun hard, « It's

my
bclicf

you came to break the yard !-But, stay, you look like some poor foreign sinner, – Take that, to buy yourself a shirt and dinner.»— With that he chuck'd a guinea at his head; But, with due dignity, the Sultaun said, « Permit me, sir, your bounty to decline; A shirt indeed I seek, but none of thine. Seignior, I kiss your hands, so fare you well.» « Kiss and be d-d,» quoth John, « and go to hell!»

Now, for the land of verdant Erin,
The Sultaun's royal bark is steering,
The emerald Isle where honest Paddy dwells,
The cousin of John Bull, as story tells.
For a long space had John, with words of thunder,
Hard looks, and harder knocks, kept Paddy under,
Till the poor lad, like boy that's tlogo'd unduly,
Had gotten somewhat restive and unruly.
Hard was his lot and lodging, you 'll allow,
A wigwam that would hardly serve a sow;
His landlord, and of middlemen iwo brace,
Had screw'd his rent up to the starving place;
His garment was a top-coat, and an old one,
His meal was a potatoe, and a cold one ;
But still for fun or frolic, and all that,
In the round world was not the match of Pat.

Next door to John there dwelt his sister Peg,
Once a wild lass as ever shook a leg,
When the blithe bagpipe blew--but soberer now,
She doucely span her flax and milk'd ker cow.
And wliereas erst she was a needy slattern,
Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern,
Yet once a-month her house was partly swept,
And once a-week a plenteous board she kept.
And whereas eke the vixen used her claws,

And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation,
She now was grown amenable to laws,

A quiet soul as any in the nation ; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon, And was d---d close in making of a bargain.

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day:
Wlien mass is ended, and luis load of sins
Confess'd, and Mother Church hath from her bions
Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit,
Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit!
To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free,
And dance as light as leaf upon

the tree.
By Mahomet,» said Sultaun Solimaun,
« That ragged fellow is our very man !
Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,
But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt

The Sultaun enter'd, and he made his leg,
And with decorum curtsied sister Peg;
(She loved a book, and knew a thing or two,
And guess'd at once with whom she had to do.)

Shilela their plan was well nigh after baulking
(Much less provocation will set it a-walking),
But the odds that foil'd Hercules foild Paddy Whack;
They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him-

Alack !
Up-bubboo! Paddy had not--a shirt to his back!!!
And the king, disappointed, with sorrow and shame,
Went back to Serendib as sad as he came.

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