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« The hand that mingled in the mcal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel

Meed for bis hospitality!
The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand,
At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
That bade destruction's tlames expand

Their red and fearful blazonry.

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Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,
And renewdl the wild pomp of the chasc and the hall;
And the standard of Fion tlash'd fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.'
It seem'd that the harp of green Erin once more
Could renew all the glories she boasted of
Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, shouldst thou

They were days of delusion, and cannot return.
But was slie too a phantom, the maid who stood by,
And listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine eye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Thien dispersed in the sun-beam or melted to dew?
Oh! would it had been so! Oh! would that her

eye Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky, And her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill, Lad been but a zepinyr that siglıd and was still!

« Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain

Respite from rutlless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shirill, The snows that night that choked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, liad still

Far more than southron clemency.

Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert Jone

Their gray-baird master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till started Scotland loud should ring,

“Revenge for blood and treachery!'»


Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart
Had learn'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bcar, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toild for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then bad I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,
« Take the fame and the riches ye brought in
Avd restore me the dream of my spring-tide agrio!»

' In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the San-beum of Macpherson.


your train,

"T is sweet to hear expiring summer's sigh, Through forests tinged with russel, wail and die; 'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to lear Of distant music, dying on the ear;

But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
We list the legends of our native land,

Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should
Link'd as they come with every tender tie,

boil: Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,'

And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail.
Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale!
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail ;
Or till Acadia's' winter-felter'd soil,

3c prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know, Ile hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe: And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!

Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,
It opens on his soul his native dell,

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail !
The woods wild waving, and the water's swell:
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;

To measure the seas and to study the skies:
The cot beneath whose simple porclı were told, May he hoist all his canvas from streamer to deck,
By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

But 0! crowd it higher when wafting him back-
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while, Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
And the dear maid who listend with a smile. Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail !
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,"
Is denizen of Scotland once again.



Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
las felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge--whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mall's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er tonight
Our humble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!

So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people depart.
Now mute on thy mountains, 0 Albyn, are heard
Nor the voice of the song, nor the harp of the bard;
Or its strings are but waked by the stern winter gale,
As they mourn for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

From the far southland border a minstrel came forth,
And he waited the hour that some bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael,
To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.



And shalt thou then sleep, did the minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame ?
No, son of Fitzgerald ! in accents of woe,

thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail,


The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong, air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue; upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore dis- For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose tinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They The glow of the genius they could not oppose ; were composed by the family bard upon the departure And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael, of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail ? in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718. Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,

All a father could hope, all a friend could approve; FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,

What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell, — The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;

In the spring-time of youth and of promise they fell! To the chieftain this morning his course who began,

Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.

To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kincail!

And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief,
O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,

For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief, May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast al Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

parting with a friend.

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