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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

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!



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

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

As they mourn for Mackenzie, last chief of Kintail.
From the far southland border a minstrel came

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

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.


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!


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.

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"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."

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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

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

But the blith harvest-home shall remember his claim,

And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sad


While they hallow the goblet that flows to his


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.

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And life is itself but a game at foot-ball. Then up with the banner, &c.

And when it is over, we'll drink a blith measure To each laird and each lady that witnessed our


And to every blith heart that took part in our plea


To the lads that have lost and the lads that have

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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 news has flown frae mouth to mouth, The north for anes has bang'd the south; The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

Carle, now the king's come.


Carle, now the king's come!
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, now the king's come!

Auld England held him lang and fast;
But Scotland's turn has come at last—
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;
Carle, now the king's come!
Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray
Thought never to have seen the day;
He's been a weary time away-

But, Carle, now the king's come!
She's skirling frae the Castle Hill
The carline's voice is grown sae shrill
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,
Carle, now the king's come!

"Up, bairns," she cries, "baith great and sma'
And busk ye for the weapon shaw!—
Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!
Čarle, now the king's come!
«Come, from Newbattle'st ancient spires,
Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires,
And match the mettle of your sires,
Carle, now the king's come!
"You're welcome hame, my Montague!
Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh;~
I'm missing some that I may rue,
Carle, now the king's come!

"Come Haddington, the kind and gay, I'll weep the cause if you should stay, You've grac'd my causeway mony a day; Carle, now the king's come!

* Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Sect

land, in August, 1822.-Am. Pub,
+Seat of the marquis of Lothian,
Uncle to the duke of Buccleugh.

"Come, premier duke,* and carry doun, Frae yonder craigt his ancient eroun; It's had a lang sleep and a soun'—

But, Carle, now the king's come! "Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Bring down your clansmen like a cloud;Come, Morton, show the Douglass blood,Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids; Carle, now the king's come! "Come, stately Niddrie‡ auld and true Girt with the sword that Minden knew; We have ower few such lairds as youCarle, now the king's come! "King Arthur's grown a common crier, He's head in Fife and far Cantire,'Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire!'§ Carle, now the king's come! "Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass Between Tantallon and the Bass!'Calton, get on your keeking-glass, Carle, now the king's come!"

+ The castle.
Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble looking old man, and a
Aine specimen of an ancient baron.

There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat.
The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the Frith

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That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty?

Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,
Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth?
Man, woman, or child? or a dog, or a mouse?
Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house?
Each live thing did I ask? each dead implement too!
A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and

Above all, are you one individual? I know
You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co.
But I think you're a troop-an assemblage-a mob--
And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job,
And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse,
Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse!
Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.

of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, anxiously looking for the royal squadron.

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