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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 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;

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 Æsop 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,
He twisted round my sire's the literal noose.

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.



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.

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.


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?t
"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.

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"The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which 1 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 loy warm,
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.


THERE is a tradition in Tweeddale, that when Niedpath castle, near Peebles, was inhabited by the earls of March, a mutual passion subsisted between a daughter of that noble family, and a son of the laird of Tushielaw, in Ettrick forest. As

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 on the road to Tushielaw, the young lady, though day when he was expected to pass through Peebles, 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 instanes similar to this traditional tale in count Hamilton's Fleur d'Epine.

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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.

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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 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. 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.


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.t
"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.

Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.
"O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enrolled,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach,* first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.

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The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew, The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre;

To me 'twas not legend, nor tale to the ear,
But a vision of noontide, distinguished and clear.
Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

And renewed the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;

And the standard of Fion flashed fierce from on high,

Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.

In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is called the Sun-burst, an epithet feebly rendered by the Sun-beam of Macpherson,

It seemed that the harp of green Erin once more Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.Yet why at remembrance, fond heart, should'st thou burn?

They were days of delusion, and cannot return. But was she, too, a phantom, the maid who stood by,

And listed my lay, while she turned from mine eye? Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view, Then dispersed in the sunbeam or melted to dew? Oh! would it had been so!-O! would that her eye Had been but a star-glance that shot through the sky,

And her voice, that was moulded to melody's
Had been but a zephyr that sighed and was still!
Oh! would it had been so!-not then his poor

Had learned the sad lesson, to love and to part;
To bear, unassisted, its burthen of care,
While I toiled for the wealth I had no one to share.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding


"Take the fame and the riches ye brought in your train,

And restore me the dream of my spring tide again!"

"O TELL me, harper, wherefore flow
Thy wayward notes of wail and wo
Far down the desert of Glencoe,

Where none may list their melody?
Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
Or to the dun deer glancing by,
Or to the eagle that from high

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?"

"No, not to these, for they have rest,—
The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest,
The stag his lair, the erne her nest,
Abode of lone security.

But those for whom I pour the lay,
Not wild wood deep, nor mountain gray,
Not this deep dell that shrouds from day,
Could screen from treacherous cruelty.
"Their flag was furled, and mute their
The very household dogs were dum,
Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.
His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,
The dame her distaff flung aside,

To tend her kindly housewifery.
"The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the felon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel
Meed for his hospitality!

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

The friendly hearth which warmed that hand,
At midnight armed it with the brand,
That bade destruction's flames expand
Their red and fearful blazonry.

"Then woman's shriek was heard in vain,
Nor infancy's unpitied plain,
More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Respite from ruthless butchery!
The winter wind that whistled shrill,
The snows that night that choaked the hill,
Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than southron clemency.

Their gray-haired master's misery. Were each gray hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring, 'Revenge for blood and treachery


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Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Whether on India's burning coasts he toil, Or till Arcadia's winter-fettered soil, He hears with throbbing heart and moistened eyes, And as he hears, what dear illusions rise! It opens on his soul his native dell, The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain; The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, By gray-haired patriarch, the tales of old, The infant group that hushed their sports the while, And the dear maid who listened with a smile. 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 mighty page Each tyrant passion shows his wo and rage, Has 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

whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferred 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!


THE original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the family bard upon the departure of the earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great earl of the North, The lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth;

Arcadia, or Nova Scotia.

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