To the chieftain this morning his course who began,
Lanching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.
For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail,
Farewell to Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!
O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean

This song appears to be imperfect, or at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glo

should boil:

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drank his bonnail,*ries of the chieftaian. The translator has endea
And farewell to Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail! voured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.
Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale!
Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his
sail;

Be prolonged as regret that his vassals must know,
Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their wo:
Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale,
Wafting onward Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!
Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise,
To measure the seas and to study the skies:
May he hoist all his canvass from streamer to deck,
But O! crowd it higher when wafting him back-
Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale,
Shall welcome Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail!

IMITATION

OF THE PRECEDING SONG.

So sung the old bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people de-
part,

Now mute on thy mountains, O 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 Kintail.
From the far southland border a minstrel came
forth,

And he waited the hour that some bard of the north
His hand on the harp of the ancient should cast,
And bid its wild numbers mix high with the blast;
But no bard was there left in the land 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 wo,
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.
In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong,
Fate deadened thine ear and imprisoned thy tongue;
For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose
The glow of the genius they could not oppose;
And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,
Might match with Mackenzie, high chief of Kintail?
Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,
All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;
What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell-
In the spring-time of youth and of promise they
fell!

Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male,
To bear the proud name of the chief of Kintail.
And thou, gentle dame, who must bear to thy grief,
For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chief,
Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection how sad is the hail,
That salutes thee the heir of the line of Kintail!

Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scottish phrase for a feast at parting with a friend.

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,
HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.
FROM THE GAELIC.

A WEARY month has wandered o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, Love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!--
'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word:
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:
He called his kindred bands on board,
And lanched them on the main.
Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won
In many a bloody broil:

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Wo to the hills that shall rebound
Our bannered bagpipes' maddening sound;
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round,

Shall shake their inmost cell.
Wo to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays;
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!

SAINT CLOUD.

SOFT spread the southern Summer night
Her veil of darkness blue;
Ten thousand stars combined to light
The terrace of saint Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sighed,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet saint Cloud.
The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew

Good night to Hulan and Husar,
That garrison saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken arms withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of saint Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,
Nor could its silence rue,
When waked, to music of our own,
The echoes of saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer-dew,
While through the moonless air they float,
Prolonged from fair saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,

Though music's self was wont to meet
With princes at saint Cloud.

i. c. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillisa.

"My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour."
Even when the battle-roar was deep,
With dauntless heart he hew'd his way
Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,
And still was heard his warrior-lay;
"My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."
Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exulting stave:
"My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower;
For love and fame to fall in fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughtered in vain,

And, beholding broad Europe bowed 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
furrow,

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 sowed it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their
gladness,

But the blith harvest-home shall remember his claim,

And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sad

ness,

While they hallow the goblet that flows to his

name.

Tho' anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Tho' 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, There are worse things in life than a tumble os
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.

Then up with the banner, let forest winds fan her She has blazed over Fatrick eight ages and more, In sport we'll attend her, in battle defend her, With heart and with hand, like our fathers before

THE END.