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Translated from the German.

THE original of these verses occurs in a collec tion of German popular songs, entitled Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807, published by Messrs. Busching and Von der Hagen, both, and more especially the last, distinguished for their acquaintance with the ancient popular poetry and legendary history of Germany.

In the German editor's notice of the ballad, it is stated to have been extracted from a manuscript Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain to St. Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears the date 1533; and the song is stated by the author to have been generally sung in the neighbourhood at that early period. Thomann, as quoted by the German editor, seems faithfully to have believed the event he narrates. He quotes tomb-stones and obituaries to prove the existence of the personages of the ballad, and discovers that there actually died on the 11th May, 1349, a lady Von Neuffen, countess of Marstetten, who was by birth of the house of Moringer. This lady he supposes to have been Moringer's daughter mentioned in the ballad. He quotes the same authority for the death of Berckhold Von Neuffen in the same year. The editors, on the whole, seem to embrace the opinion of professor Smith, of Ulm, who, from the language of the ballad, ascribes its date to the 15th century.

The legend itself turns on an incident not peculiar to Germany, and which perhaps was not unlikely to happen in more instances than one, when crusaders abode long in the Holy Land, and their disconsolate dames received no tidings of their fate. A story very similar in circumstances, but without the miraculous machinery of saint Thomas, is told of one of the ancient lords of Haighhall, in Lancashire, the patrimonial inheritance of the late countess of Balcarras; and the particulars are represented on stained glass upon a window in that ancient manor-house.

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And trust this charge to me until
Your pilgrimage have end.
"Rely upon my plighted faith,
Which shall be truly tried,

To guard your lands, and ward your towers,
And with your vassals ride;

And for your lovely lady's faith,
So virtuous and so dear,

I'll gage my head it knows no change,
Be absent thirty year."


The noble Moringer took cheer
When thus he heard him speak,
And doubt forsook his troubled brow,
And sorrow left his cheek;
A long adieu he bids to all-
Hoists top-sails and away,
And wanders in saint Thomas-land
Seven twelvemonths and a day.

It was the noble Moringer
Within an orchard slept,

When on the baron's slumbering sense
A boding vision crept;

And whisper'd in his ear a voice,
""Tis time, sir knight, to wake,
Thy lady and thine heritage
Another master take.


"Thy tower another banner knows,
Thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will
Thy gallant vassal train;
And she, the lady of thy love,
So faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall,
She weds Marstetten's heir."
It is the noble Moringer
Starts up and tears his beard,
"Oh would that I had ne'er been born!
What tidings have I heard!
To lose my lordship and my lands
The less would be my care,
But, God! that e'er a squire untrue
Should wed my lady fair!


"O good saint Thomas, hear," he pray'd, "My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs me of my land Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy

That was so pure of name, And I am far in foreign land, And must endure the shame." XVIII.

It was the good saint Thomas, then,
Who heard his pilgrim's praye",
And sent a sleep so deep and dead
That it o'erpower'd his care;
He waked in fair Bohemian land,
Outstretch'd beside a rill,
High on the right a castle stood,
Low on the left a mill.


The Moringer he started up

As one from spell unbound, And, dizzy with surprise and joy, Gazed wildly all around;


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The priest that prays for Moringer Shall have both cope and stole."

It was the noble Moringer
To climb the hill began,

And stood before the bolted gate
A wo and weary man;
"Now help me, every saint in heaven,
That can compassion take,
To gain the entrance of my hall
This woful match to break."
His very knock it sounded sad,
His call was sad and slow,
For heart and head, and voice and hand,
Were heavy all with wo;

And to the warder thus he spoke:
"Friend, to thy lady say,
A pilgrim from saint Thomas-land
Craves harbour for a day.


"I've wander'd many a weary step, My strength is well nigh done, And if she turn me from her gate

I'll see no morrow's sun;

1 pray, for sweet saint Thomas' sake,
A pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul."

It was the stalwart warder then
He came his dame before,

"A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd
Stands at the castle door;

And prays, for sweet saint Thomas' sake,

For harbour and for dole, And for the sake of Moringer, Thy noble husband's soul." XXVII.

The lady's gentle heart was moved, "Do up the gate," she said,

"And bid the wanderer welcome be
To banquet and to bed:

And since he names my husband's name,
So that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage
A twelve-month and a day."


It was the stalwart warder then
Undid the portal broad,

It was the noble Moringer

That o'er the threshold strode; "And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said, Though from a man of sin,

That the true lord stands here once more
His castle gate within."

Then up the hall paced Moringer,
His step was sad and slow,
It sat full heavy on his heart,

None seem'd their lord to know; He sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with wo and wrong, Short space he sat, but ne'er to him Seem'd little space so long.


Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,
And come was evening hour,

The time was nigh when new-made brides
Retire to nuptial bower;

"Our castle's wont," a brides-man said,
"Hath been both firm and long,
No guest to harbour in our halls
Till he shall chant a song."


Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there,
As he sat by the bride,

"My merry minstrel folks," quoth he,
"Lay shalm and harp aside;
Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,
The castle's rule to hold;
And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold."

"Chill flows the lay of frozen age,” "Twas thus the pilgrim sung,

" Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,
Unlocks her heavy tongue;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,
At board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride,
With all her charms, was mine.


"But time traced furrows on my face, And I grew silver-hair'd,

For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, She left this brow and beard;

Once rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage,

And mingle with your bridal mirth The lay of frozen age.'


XXXIV. It was the noble lady there This woful lay that hears, And for the aged pilgrim's grief Her eye was dimm'd with tears She bade her gallant cup-bearer A golden beaker take, And bear it to the palmer poor To quaff it for her sake.

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It was the noble Moringer
That dropp'd, amid the wine,
A bridal-ring of burning gold,
So costly and so fine;

Now listen, gentles, to my song,
It tells you but the sooth,
'Twas with that very ring of gold
He pledged his bridal truth.

Then to the cup-bearer he said,
"Do me one kindly deed,
And should my better days return,
Full rich shall be thy meed;
Bear back the golden cup again

To yonder bride so gay,
And crave her, of her courtesy,
To pledge the palmer gray.

The cup-bearer was courtly bred,
Nor was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again,
And bore it to the bride;
"Lady," he said, "your reverend guest
Sends this, and bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy,

Thou pledge the palmer gray."

The ring hath caught the lady's eye,
She views it close and near,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud,
"The Moringer is here!"

Then might you see her start from seat,
While tears in torrents fell,

But whether 'twas for joy or wo,
The ladies best can tell.


But loud she utter'd thanks to heaven,
And every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer
Before the midnight hour;


Had we a difference with some petty isle,

Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord,

Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued:

But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,

The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those beside themselves, allow no neighbour,

Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance, And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest, And, where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Rome

And loud she utter'd vow on vow, That never was there bride

It must not be.-No! as they are our foes,

Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.-

That had like her preserved her troth, Or been so sorely tried.


THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in

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He kneel'd before the Moringer, And down his weapon threw;



1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the honourable lieutenant-colonel

Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general con- Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of


My oath and knightly faith are broke,"
These were the words he said,

"Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword,
And take thy vassal's head."
The noble Moringer he smiled,
And then aloud did say,

"He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd
Seven twelvemonths and a day.
My daughter now hath fifteen years,
Fame speaks her sweet and fair,
1 give her for the bride you lose,
And name her for my heir.

"The young bridegroom hath youthful bride The old bridegroom the old,

Whose faith was kept till term and tide
So punctually were told;
But blessings on the warder kind
That oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide,
1 came a day too late."

arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate."

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THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. Air-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan. THE Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, baron of Chepstow, lords-marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

The royal colours.

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th of August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved.

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the coursers' thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle horn;

And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;
They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they swore,-the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows,
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vowed-the trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been:
In every sable hoof tramp stood
A Norman horseman's curdling blood!

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