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O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come,

When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and drum; Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you may, For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day. O ho ro, i ri ri, etc.

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.

Written for Albyn's Anthology.

AIR-Piobair of Dhonuil Duidh.1

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to the Clan Mac-Donald, 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 Dhonail, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd Dhonnil Daidb, piobaireachd Dhonuil;
Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, 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 at the gathering-place on Inverlochy.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended;

Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded:

The Pibroch of Donald the Black.

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page, and groom,
Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,
Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!

NORA'S VOW.

Written for Albyn's Anthology.

Ain-Cha teid mis a chaoidh.'

In the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red Earl's son until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lake -until one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mindexcept the vehemence of her protestation.

HEAR What Highland Nora said,
«The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

I would not wed the Earlie's son.»>

« A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke,
« Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begins to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.>>

« The swan,» she said, « the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.»>

Still in the water-lily's shade

Her wonted nest the wild-swan made,
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turn'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,

She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

I will never go with him..

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MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

AIR-Cha till mi tuille.

MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the elan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching fend; and hence 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.

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

'Tis 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 fall,
Whether at Alwyn's' lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel; 2
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the, wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL. AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run.

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,

In Ettrick'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?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain'd and tuneless 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.

Alwyn, the seat 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.

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THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.
AIR-Yindaith Mionge.

Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

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 proces | sion, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and 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.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang Round beleaguer'd Chester rang, Veiled nun 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!

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 unhallow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail,
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent : the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desclatice a sioned by the massacre;- tot semiruti parietes eccle D anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi oras

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