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Approach, and through the unlatticed window


Nay, shrink not back, the inmate is asleep;
Sunk mid yon sordid blankets, till the sun
Stoop to the west, the plunderer's toils are done.
Loaded and primed, and prompt for desperate hand,
Rifle and fowling-piece beside him stand,
While round the hut are in disorder laid
The tools and booty of his lawless trade;
For force or fraud, resistance or escape,
The crow, the saw, the bludgeon, and the crape.
His pilfered powder in yon nook he hoards,
And the filch'd lead the church's roof affords-
(Hence shall the rector's congregation fret,
That while his sermon's dry, his walls are wet.)
The fish-spear barb'd, the sweeping net are there,
Doe-hides, and pheasant plumes, and skins of hare,
Cordage for toils, and wiring for the snare.
Barter'd for game from chase or warren won,
Yon cask holds moonlight,* run when moon was


And late snatch'd spoils lie stow'd in hutch apart, To wait the associate higgler's evening cart.

Look on his pallet foul, and mark his rest:
What scenes perturb'd are acting in his breast!
His sable brow is wet and wrung with pain,
And his dilated nostril toils in vain,
For short and scant the breath each effort draws,
And 'twixt each effort Nature claims a pause.
Beyond the loose and sable neck-cloth stretch'd,
His sinewy throat seems by convulsions twitch'd,
While the tongue falters, as to utterance loth,
Sounds of dire import-watch-word, threat, and

Though, stupified by toil and drugg'd with gin,
The body sleeps, the restless guest within
Now plies on wood and wold his lawless trade,
Now in the fangs of justice wakes dismayed.-
"Was that wild start of terror and despair,
Those bursting eye-balls, and that wildered air,
Signs of compunction for a murdered hare?
Do the locks bristle and the eye-brows arch,
For grouse or partridge massacred in March?"
No, scoffer, no! Attend, and mark with awe,
There is no wicket in the gate of law!
He, that would e'er so lightly set ajar
That awful portal must undo each bar;
Tempting occasion, habit, passion, pride,
Will join to storm the breach, and force the bar-
rier wide.

That ruffian, whom truc men avoid and dread,
Whom bruisers, poachers, smugglers, call Black


Was Edward Mansell once;--the lightest heart,
That ever played on holiday his part!
The leader he in every christmas game,
The harvest feast grew blither when he came,
And liveliest on the chords the bow did glance,
When Edward named the tune and led the dance.
Kind was his heart, his passions quick and strong,
Hearty his laugh, and jovial was his song;
And if he loved a gun, his father swore,
"Twas but a trick of youth would soon be o'er,
Himself had done the same some thirty years be-

But he, whose humours spurn law's awful yoke, Must herd with those by whom law's bonds are broke.

A cant name for smuggled spirits,

The common dread of justice soon allies
The clown, who robs the warren or excise,
With sterner felons trained to act more dread,
Even with the wretch by whom his fellow bled.
Then,-as in plagues the foul contagions pass,
Leavening and festering the corrupted mass,-
Guilt leagues with guilt, while mutual motives

Their hope impunity, their fear the law;
Their foes, their friends, their rendezvous the same,
Till the revenue baulk'd, or pilfered game,
Flesh the young culprit, and example leads
To darker villany and direr deeds.

And oft the owl renewed her dismal song;
Wild howled the wind the forest glades along,
Around the spot where erst he felt the wound,
Red William's spectre walked his midnight round.
When o'er the swamp he cast his blighting look,
The bittern's sullen shout the sedges shook;
From the green marshes of the stagnant brook
Now gave and now withheld her doubtful beam;
The waning-moon, with storm-presaging gleam,
The old oak stooped his arms, then flung them

Bellowing and groaning to the troubled sky-
'Twas then, that, couched amid the brushwood

In Malwood-walk, young Mansell watched the deer:

The fattest buck received his deadly shot-
The watchful keeper heard, and sought the spot.
Stout were their hearts, and stubborn was their

Q'erpowered at length the outlaw drew his knife
Next morn a corpse was found upon the fell-
The rest his waking agony may tell!


NIGHT and morning were at meeting
Over Waterloo;

Cocks had sung their earliest greeting,
Faint and low they crew,

For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolonged the sway
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flashed the sheets of levin-light;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouack
Where the soldier lay,

Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again,

Though death should come with day. 'Tis at such a tide and hour,

Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower,
Gleam on the gifted ken;

And then the affrighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,
Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men;--

from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay; Gray Allen, who, for many a day, Had followed stout and stern, Where through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel,

Led the grandson of Lochiel,
Valiant Fassiefern.

Through steel and shot he leads no more,
Low-laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore-
But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,
And Morven long shall tell,
And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra
Of conquest as he fell.

Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel held post,

And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloaked patrole their course,
And spurred 'gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear,
Patrole nor sentinel may hear,
And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have passed,

When down the destined plain

"Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheeled a revel dance,
And doomed the future slain.--

Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,
When Scotland's James his march prepared
For Flodden's fatal plain;

Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,
As choosers of the slain, adored
The yet unchristen'd Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,

They wheeled their ring-dance hand in hand,
With gesture wild and dread;

The seer, who watched them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form
The lightnings flash more red;
And still their ghastly roundelay
Was of the coming battle-fray,

And of the destined dead.


Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Our airy feet,

So light and fleet,

They do not bend the rye,

That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,

And swells again in eddying wave,

As each wild gust blows by;

But still the corn,

At dawn of morn,

Our fatal steps that bore,

At eve lies waste,

A trampled paste

Of blackening mud and gore.
Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Wheel the wild dance,
Brave sons of France!

For you our ring makes room;

Make space full wide
For martial pride,

For banner, spear, and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier!

Room for the men of steel!
Through crest and plate
The broad-sword's weight,
Both head and heart shall feel.
Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!
You feel us near,

In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's eye

Our forms you spy,

And hear our fatal scream.

With clearer sight

Ere falls the night,

Just when to weal or wo

Your disembodied souls take flight

On trembling wing-each startled sprite
Our choir of death shall know.

Wheel the wild dance,

While lightnings glance,
And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours

See, the east grows wan-
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,

The legend heard him say:

But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafened his ear, and stark his limb,

Ere closed that bloody day-

He sleeps far from his highland heath,But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale

On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, And waning watch-fires glow less bright, And dawn is glimmering pale.

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What voice was like thine, that could sing of to


Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,

The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not assuage;

Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,

The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents be-

To sing how a warrior lay stretched on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold geblet in vain;
As vain those enchantments, Ŏ queen of wild

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers,
Farewell then-Enchantress!--1 meet thee no


PLAIN, as her native dignity of mind,
Arise the tomb of her we have resign'd:
Unflaw'd and stainless be the marble scroll,
Emblem of lovely form, and candid soul.-
But, oh! what symbol may avail, to tell
The kindness, wit, and sense, we lov'd so well!
What sculpture show the broken ties of life,
Here buried with the parent, friend, and wife!
Or, on the tablet, stamp each title dear,
By which thine urn, EUPHEMIA, claims the tear!
Yet, taught, by thy meek sufferance, to assume
Patience in anguish, hope beyond the tomb,
Resign'd, though sad, this votive verse shall flow,
And brief, alas! as thy brief span below.

That, like the Roman in the capitol,
I may adjust my mantle ere I fall:
My life's brief act in public service flown,
The last, the closing scene, must be my own.
Here, then, adieu! while yet some well-graced

May fix an ancient favourite in your hearts,
Not quite to be forgotten, even when
You look on better actors, younger men:
And if your bosoms own this kindly debt
Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget-
O, how forget!-how oft I hither came
In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame!
How oft around your circle this weak hand
Has waved immortal Shakspeare's magic wand,
Till the full burst of inspiration came,
And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame!
By mem❜ry treasured, while her reign endures,
Those hours must live-and all their charms are


O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms,
For manly talent and for female charms,
Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,
What fervent benedictions now were thine!
But my last part is play'd, my knell is rung,
When e'en your praise falls faltering from my

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,
Is-friends and patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL!



A CAT of yore (or else old sop lied)
Was changed into a fair and blooming bride,
But spied a mouse upon her marriage day,
Forgot her spouse and seized upon her prey;
Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you saw,
Threw off poor me and pounced upon papa.
His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made loose,

MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS, He twisted round my sire's the literal noose.


As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound,
Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground,
Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns,
And longs to rush on the embattled lines,
So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear,
Can scarce sustain to think our parting near;
To think my scenic hour for ever past,
And that those valued plaudits are my last.

Such are the fruits of our dramatic labour
Since the new jail became our next door neigh-


Yes, times are changed, for in your fathers' age
The lawyers were the patrons of the stage;
However high advanced by future fate,
There stands the bench (points to the pit) that first
received their weight.

The future legal sage, 'twas ours to see,

Why should we part, while still some powers re- Doom though unwigg'd, and plead without a fee.


That in your service strive not yet in vain?
Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,
And sense of duty fire the fading eye?
And all the wrongs of age remain subdued
Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is past,
It cannot be renew'd, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude, can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of age.
Yes! it were poor, remembering what I was,
To live a pensioner on your applause,
To drain the dregs of your endurance dry,
And take, as alms, the praise I once could buy,
Till every sneering youth around inquires,
"Is this the man who once could please our sires?"
And scorn assumes compassion's doubtful mien,
To warn me off from the encumber'd scene.
This must not be;-and higher duties crave
Some space between the theatre and the grave;

But now astounding each poor mimic elf,
Instead of lawyers comes the law herself;
Tremendous neighbour, on our right she dwells,
Builds high her towers and excavates her cells;
While on the left, she agitates the town
With the tempestuous question, Up or down?†
"Twixt Scylla and Charybdis thus stand we,
Law's final end and law's uncertainty.

But soft! who lives at Rome the pope must flatter,
And jails and lawsuits are no jesting matter.
Then--just farewell! we wait with serious awe,
Till your applause or censure gives the law,
Trusting our humble efforts may assure ye,
We hold you court and counsel, judge and jury.

It is necessary to mention, that the allusions in this piece are all local, and addressed only to the Edinburgh audience. The new prisons of the city, on the Calton Hill, are not far from the theatre.

At this time the public of Edinburgh was much agitated by a lawsuit betwixt the magistrates and many of the inhabitants of the city, concerning the range of new buildings on the western side of the North Bridge; which the latter insisted should be removed as a deformity.


Он, say not, my love, with that mortified air,
That your spring-time of pleasure is flown,
Nor bid me to maids that are younger repair,
For those raptures that still are thine own.
Tho' April his temples may wreathe with the vine,
Its tendrils in infancy curl'd,

'Tis the ardour of August matures us the wine
Whose life-blood enlivens the world.
Tho' thy form, that was fashion'd as light as a fay's,
Has assumed a proportion more round,
And thy glance, that was bright as a falcon's at gaze,
Looks soberly now on the ground,——
Enough, after absence to meet me again,
Thy steps still with ecstasy move;
Enough, that those dear sober glances retain
For me the kind language of love!


"O OPEN the door, some pity to show,
Keen blows the northern wind;
The glen is white with the drifted snow,
And the path is hard to find.
"No outlaw seeks your castle gate,
From chasing the king's deer,
Though even an outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.

"A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;
O open, for our lady's sake,

A pilgrim's blessing win!

"I'll give you pardons from the pope,
And relics from o'er the sea,-
Or if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.

"The hare is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind:
An aged man, amid the storm,

No shelter can I find.

"You hear the Ettrick's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettrick o'er,
Unless you pity me.

"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which I knock in vain;

The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.
"Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,
That's now denied to me."
The ranger on his couch lov arm,
And heard him plead in vain;
But oft, amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again:

For lo, when through the vapours dank,
Morn shone on Ettrick fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.

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the alliance was thought unsuitable by her parents, the young man went abroad. During his absence, the lady fell into a consumption, and at length, as the only means of saving her life, her father consented that her lover should be recalled. On the

day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though much exhausted, caused herself to be carried to the balcony of a house in Peebles, belonging to the family, that she might see him as he rode past Her anxiety and eagerness gave such force to her organs, that she is said to have distinguished his horse's footsteps at an incredible distance. But Tushielaw, unprepared for the change in her appearance, and not expecting to see her in that place, rode on without recognizing her, or even slackening his pace. The lady was unable to support the shock, and, after a short struggle, died in the arms of her attendants. There is an instanee similar to this traditional tale in count Hamilton's Fleur d'Epine.

O LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,
And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,

Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,
To watch her love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.
By fits, a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;
By fits, so ashy pale she grew,

Her maidens thought her dying.
Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear,
She heard her lover's riding;
Ere scarce a distant form was kenned,
She knew, and waved to greet him;
And o'er the battlement did bend,

As on the wing to meet him.
He came he passed-an heedless gaze,
As o'er some stranger, glancing;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,
Could hardly catch the feeble moan,
Which told her heart was broken.

WANDERING WILLIE. ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wandered beside it,

And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing,

1 sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing,

And wished that the tempest could a' blaw on me.

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame, Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring, That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean faem.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle,

And blith was each heart for the great victory, In secret 1 wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may glisten;

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. And oh, how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers,

When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e;

How often the kindest, and warmest, prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd,

If love could change notes like the bird on the


Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,

Hardships and danger despising for fame, Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! Enough, now thy story in annals of glory

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain;

No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me,

I never will part with my Willie again.


WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,

On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,

To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the green-wood haste away.
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers frayed;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay.'

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!

Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee, Run a course as well as we:

Time, stern huntsman! who can balk, Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk: Think of this, and rise with day, Gentle lords and ladies gay.


THE violet in her green-wood bower,
Where birchen boughs with hazles mingle,
May boast itself the fairest flower

In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. Though fair her gems of azure hue, Beneath the dew drop's weight reclining, I've seen an eye of lovelier blue,

More sweet through watʼry lustre shining. The summer sun that dew shall dry, Ere yet the day be past its morrow; Nor longer in my false love's eye, Remained the tear of parting sorrow.



TAKE these flowers, which, purple waving,
On the ruined rampart grew,
Where, the sons of freedom braving,
Rome's imperial standards flew.
Warriors from the breach of danger
Pluck no longer laurels there:
They but yield the passing stranger
Wild-flower wreaths for Beauty's hair.


THE forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine, and the dark oak-tree; And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer, Is whistling the forest lullaby:

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the bard in fitful mood;
His song was louder than the blast,

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days!
For the midnight wind is on the heath,

And the midnight meteors dimly blaze:
The spectre with his bloody hand,*
Is wandering through the wild woodland;
The owl and the raven are mute for dread,
And the time is meet to awake the dead!
"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung,
When Lochlin ploughed her billowy way,
And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen trained to spoil and blood,
Skilled to prepare the Raven's food,
All, by your harpings doomed to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.†

"Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.

Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

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