Come from the earth, the air, or the sea,

Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!

Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind, Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind; And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,

The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.

Over the dog-star, over the wain,

Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,

Over the mountain, and over the sea,
Haste-haste-haste to me!

Then here's for trouble, and here's for smart,
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!

HOW DEAR TO ME THE HOUR.

THIS is likewise on the proscription list—a proscribed rebel against the sovereign authority of Mr Little the Great; but if I have trod too near the heels of his dignity, I am sure it was through no ill intention. The verses were once harmonized by Smith to an Irish air called "The Twisting of the Rope."

How dear to me the hour when daylight springs,

And sheds new glories on the opening view,
When westward far the towering mountain flings
His shadow, fringed with rainbows on the dew,
And the love-waken'd lark enraptured springs
To heaven's own gate, his carols to renew!

In every flowering shrub then life is new,
As opening on the sun its gladsome eye;
Sq is life's morning-blithely we pursue
Hope's gilded rainbow of the heavenly dye,
Till worn and weary we our travel rue,

And in life's cheerless gloaming yearn and die!

THE HILL OF LOCHIEL.

A JACOBITE Song, suggested by the name of the air. To be found in the Scottish Minstrel.

LONG have I pined for thee,

Land of my infancy,

Now will I kneel on thee,

Hill of Lochiel !

Hill of the sturdy steer,

Hill of the roe and deer,

Hill of the streamlet clear,

I love thee well!

When in my youthful prime,
Correi or crag to climb,

Or tow'ring cliff sublime,

Was my delight;

Scaling the eagle's nest,

Wounding the raven's breast,

Skimming the mountain's crest,
Gladsome and light.

Then rose a bolder game,-
Young Charlie Stuart came,

Cameron, that loyal name,

Foremost must be!

Hard then our warrior meed,

Glorious our warrior deed,

Till we were doom'd to bleed

By treachery!

Then did the red blood stream,

Then was the broadsword's gleam

Quench'd; in fair freedom's beam
No more to shine!

Then was the morning's brow
Red with the fiery glow;

Fell hall and hamlet low,

All that were mine.

Far in a hostile land,

Stretch'd on a foreign strand,

Oft has the tear-drop bland

Scorch'd as it fell.

Once was I spurn'd from thee, Long have I mourn'd for thee,

Now I'm return'd to thee,

Hill of Lochiel!