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And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my lov'd harp! my last treasure, farewell!
THE MAID OF TORO.
O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,
All as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. "O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;
Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry; Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!
All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, Cleft was his helmet, and wo was his mien. "O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on you heath thy brave Henry is lying; And fast through the woodland approaches the
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair:
And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, For ever he set to the brave and the fair.
The much loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was
clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O! was it meet, that, no requium read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,
Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;
In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming;
Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.
THE first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn's Anthology.
"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide?
I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
"Now let this wilful grief be done,
His sword in battle keen”—
"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair;
Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
And you, the foremost o' them a',
O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and
Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you
For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.
O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.
PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU. Written for Albyn's Anthology. Air-Piobair of Dhonuil Duidh.t 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, lanched from the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the earls of Marr 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 Dhonui!, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,
The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place! at Inverlochy.
PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Hark to the summons!
From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy:
True heart that wears one,
"Sleep on till day." These words, adopted to a melody somewhat different from the original, are sung in friend Mr. Terry's drama of Guy Mannering.
The pibroch of Donald the Black,
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 mind--except the vehemence of her protestation.
HEAR what highland Nora said,
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 blithly 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,
Still in the water-lily's shade
I will never go with him.”
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalach!
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Mac-Gregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever! Come then, Gregalach, come then, Gregalach, Come then, come then, come then, &c. Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt! Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach! Gather, gather, gather, &c.
DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN.
Air-Malcolm Caird's come again.†
DONALD Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donala Caird's come again! Donald Caird can lilt and sing, Blithly dance the hieland fling, Drink till the gudeman be blind, Fleech till the gudewife be kind; Hoop a leglen, clout a pan, Or crack a pow wi' ony man; Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again.
"The Mac-Gregor is come." + Caird signifies Tinker.
Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird can wire a maukin, Kens the wiles o' dun deer staukin; Leisters kipper, makes a shift To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift; Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, He can wauk when they are sleepers; Not for bountith or reward Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Gar the bagpipes hum amain, Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird can drink a gill Fast as hostler-wife can fill; Ilka ane that sells good liquor Kens how Donald bends a bicker. When he's fou he's stout and saucy, Keeps the cantle of the cawsey; Highland chief and lowland laird, Maun gi'e room to Donald Caird!
Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! Steek the amrie, lock the kist, Else some gear may weel be mist; Donald Caird finds orra things Where Allan Gregor fand the tings; Dunts of kebbeck, taits of woo, Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, Webs or duds frae hedge or yard'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird!
Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Dinna let the shirra ken Donald Caird's come again!
On Donald Caird the doom was stern,
Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Dinna let the justice ken Donald Caird's come again!
Air-Cha till mi tuille."
MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan 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 feud; 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
"We return no more."
which the emigrants from the west highlands and isles usually take leave of their native shore.
MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;/ Gleam war-axe and broad sword, clang target and! quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Dunvegan for ever! Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming; Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming; Farewell lonely SKYE, to lake, mountain, and river, Macleod may return but Mackrimmon, shall never! "Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping; To each minstrel delusion, farewell!-and for
Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'Tis blith at eve to tell the tale,
THE SUN UPON THE WIERDLAW-HILL Air-Rimhin aluin 'stu me un.
The air, composed by the editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.
THE Sun upon the Wierdlaw-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 ruined 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?
THE MAID OF ISLA.
Written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Me lodies.
O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,
That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,
OIsla's maid, she seeks her home.
As to the rock she wheels away;Where clouds are dark and billows rave, Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?
O maid of Isla, 'tis her home.
As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,
Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,
Where sea-birds close their wearied wing.
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
+Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time.
•Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which friend. the poet had been engaged with some friends.
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,
Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come;
Set to music by John Whitefield, Mus. Doc. Cam.
There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be
The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,
And strive to distinguish, through tempest and
The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.
'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye
Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown;
THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH,
Written for Mr. George Thomson's Welch Melo
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 procession, 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
O miserere, Domine!
Bands that masses only sung,
O miserere, Domine!
Sing O miserere, Domine!
THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;
THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN,
O, FOR a glance of that gay muse's eye,
That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale, And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly,
When Giam Battista bade her vision hail!t Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail
Given by the natives of that land canorous;
We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre;-tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas.
The hint of the following tale is taken from La Camiscia Magica, a novel of Giam Battista Casti.