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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 he dealt in petty treason,
He loved them both in equal measure;
Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.



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


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 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,

The shout of his people applauding his Sox;
By his firmness unmoved in success or 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 came.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure The rites of our grief and our gratitude pail, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright treasure The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that ober! Fill WELLINGTON'S Cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and G A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their star And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.




At a great Foot-ball Match on Carterkangk FROM the brown crest of Newark its summons exter Our signal is waving in smoke and in flame, And each forester blithe, from his mountain Bounds light o'er the heather to join in the gatit

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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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