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THE HIGHLANDER'S FAREWELL

Is one of those desperate Jacobite effusions, which, in the delirium of chivalry, I have so often poured out when contemplating the disinterested valour of the clans, and the beastly cruelty of their victors. It is a mercy that I live in a day when the genuine heir of the Stuarts fills their throne, else my head would only be a tenant at will of my shoulders. I have composed more national songs than all the bards of Britain put together. Many of them have never been published; more of them have been, under various names and pretences : but few of them shall ever be by me again. The song is set by Smith, in the Scottish Minstrel.

my head,

O WHERE shall I gae seek my bread,

Or where shall I gae wander,
O where shall I

gae

hide
For here I'll bide nae langer ?
The seas may rowe, the winds may blow,

And swathe me round in danger,
But Scotland I maun now forego,

And roam a lonely stranger !

The glen that was my father's own,

Maun be by his forsaken;
The house that was my father's home

Is levell’d with the braken.
Oh hon! oh hon! our glory's gone,

Stole by a ruthless reaver-
Our hands are on the broad claymore,

But the might is broke for ever!

And thou, my Prince, my injured Prince,

Thy people have disown'd theeHave hunted and have driven thee hence,

With ruined Chiefs around thee. Though hard beset, when I forget

Thy fate, young, hapless rover, This broken heart shall cease to beat,

And all its griefs be over.

Farewell, farewell, dear Caledon,

Land of the Gael no longer ! Strangers have trod thy glory on,

In guile and treachery stronger.

The brave and just sink in the dust,

On ruin's brink they quiverHeaven's pitying eye is closed on thee;

Adieu, adieu for ever!

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This is a most unearthly song, copied from an unearthly
tragedy of my own, published anonymously with others, in
two volumes, in 1817, by Messrs Longman and Co., and
John Ballantyne. The title of the play is All-Hallow Eve.
It was suggested to me by old Henry Mackenzie. After a
short but intimate acquaintance, I threw it aside, and my
eyes never fell upon it till this night, the last of November,
1830.
The poetry

the play has astounded me. The following is but a flea-bite to some of it.

Thou art weary, weary, weary,

Thou art weary and far away,
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me,

Come before the dawn of day.

I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and stille
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.

And in the cleft of heaven I scan

The giant form of a naked man,
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.

All is not well. By dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray,
The spirits have wander'd from their way.

The purple drops shall tinge the moon
As she wanders through the midnight noon ;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.

Be as it will, I have the skill
To work by good or work by ill ;
Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all.

Another chant, and then, and then,
Spirits shall come or Christian men-

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