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

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

Their red and fearful blazonry.

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

Respite from rutlıless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shirill, The shows that night that choked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than soutlırou clemency.

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

They were days of delusion, and cannot return.
But was she too a phantom, the maid who stood by,
Aod listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine cye?
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,

Then dispersed in the sun-bcam or melted to dew? non / Ob! would it bad been so! Oh! would that her eye

Had bern but a star-glance that shot through the sky, Aud her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill, llad been but a zeplıyr that sigh'd and was still! Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart llad learu'd the sad lesson, to love and to part; To bear, ubassisted, its burihen of care, While I toild for the wealth I liad no one to sliare. Not then had I said, when life's summer was done, And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on, • Take the faine and the riches ye brought in your train, And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again!»

In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the $2n-burst, an epitbot feebly renderod by thu Sun-beum of

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

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

Revenge for blood and treachery!'»

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TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND. "T is sweet to hear expiring summer's sich, Through forests tioged with russet, wail and die; T is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear Of distant music, dying on the car;


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 bopnail,'

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,

Be prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know, He 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 pale, 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 lis 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 lie hoist all his canvas from streamer to deck, By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

But O! crowd it higher when wafting him backThe infant group that hushi'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 mighly page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Ilas felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge-whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull'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 bumble 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 hictail.

From the far southland border a minstrel came forth.
And he waited the hour that some bard of the porth
His hand on the harp of the ancient should casi,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the laod 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,
The song 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 tougue upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore dis- For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose tinct from the ordinary jorrains, 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 Kiatail' 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;

Io the spring-time of youth and of promise überf! To the chieftain this mornin: 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 hitid. For a far foreign land lie has hoisted his säil, Farewell to Mackenzie, Higli Chief of Kintail!

And thou, geatle dame, who must bear to the Til O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,

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

+ Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase fera a Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

parting with a frieud.

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Though thus be dealt in petty treasoa,

He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.


They owed the conquest to his arm,

And then bis 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,

Jf 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!»



O Dread was the time, and more dreadful cbe omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in rain, And, beholding broad Europe bow ddown by lzer foemen,

Put closed in his anguish the map of her reigo! 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.

THE TROUBADOUR. GLOwing with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour that haied sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus be 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.»

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 sorros,

And sich wliitc he fears bie has sow'd it ia vain; He may die ere his children shall reap ia 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.

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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.» E'en '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

Ile fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exuiting slave : « My life it is my country's right,

My heart it is my lady's bower; For love and fame to fill in fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»

Nor forget His gray head, who, all dark in affliction,

Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,

7 he shout of luis people applauding lis SON; By his firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember bis claim! With our tribute to Puit join the praise of luis Vaster,

Though a tear stain the goblet thai dlows to his name

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,

The riies of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Iléroes, devote the bright ire aner

The wisdom that plannil, and the real that oby Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,

Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and GRAF; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their shiny.

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.




FROM THE FRENCH. It chanced that Cupid on a season,

By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason

Or Folly should partake his bed, What does he then ?-l'pon my life,

"T was bad example for a deityIle takes me Reason for his wife,

And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

At a great Football Match ou Carterhetyka From the brown crest of Newark issummons

Our signal is waving in smoke and in time, And eacli forester blithe, from his mountain descendios

Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the game.


May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and LandThen ир with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

ward, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more ;

From the ball of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook ; In sport we 'll attend her, in battle defend her, And huzza! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUGU and his With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.


For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke! When the southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, Foraround them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more ; The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUGI. In sport we 'll attend her, in battle defend her, Then up with the Banner, etc.

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before. A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

Then up with the banner, etc.
We forget each contention of civil dissension, Of yore, in old England, it was not thought good

And hail like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and CAR; To carry two visages under one hood;
And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenty,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty?
Then up with the Banner, etc.

Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,

Are you handsome or ugly ? in age, or in youth? Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, Man, woman, or child ? or a dog, or a mouse?

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, Each live thing did I ask ? each dead implement too! And life is itself but a game at fool-ball.

A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw? Then up with the Banner, etc.

Above all, are you one individual? I know

You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co. And when it is over, we 'll drink a blithe measure But I think you 're a troop-an assemblage-a mob

To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun, And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse ! Then up with the Banner, etc.

Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.


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