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I heard her sweet voice

'Mid the depth of my slumber, And the sang that she sung

Was of sorrow and cumber.

Sleep sound, my sweet babe,

There is nought to alarm thee; The sons of the valley

No power have to harm thee! I'll sing thee to rest

In the balloch untrodden, With a coronach sad

For the slain of Culloden !

“ The brave were betray'd,

And the tyrant is daring To trample and waste us,

Unpitying, unsparing ! Thy mother no voice has,

No feeling that changes, No word, sign, or song,

But the lesson of vengeance !

« l'll tell thee, my son,

How our laurels are withering ; I'll bind on thy sword

When the clansmen are gathering ; I'll bid thee go forth

In the cause of true honour,

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O come from your caverns,

All bloodless and hoary, And these fiends of the valley

Shall tremble before ye!”


It is rather curious that the only time I ever heard this song sung, except by one young lady (Miss Forrest), was in the theatre at Lancaster, by the same man who sung Donald M‘Donald, a Scotsman, I think, of the name of M‘Rae. He sung it to a monotonous tune, and it did not take well. They were both announced for a future night; but I came off and left them. It happened to be the time of the assizes, and in two days, out of near forty offenders, they cast twentyfour for execution, the whole trials taking up little more time than in Scotland would have been taken for the trial of one. I had gone to make the tour of Wales; but it appeared to me that all these fellows were just men that they had brought in to be hanged. So I thought I was long enough there, and the next morning set off for Scotland by the Lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland ; and so ended my tour to Wales. Niel Gow, jun. composed the air to which it is set in the Border Garland, but it is oftener sung to another composed by a young lady.

CALEDONIA ! thou land of the mountain and rock,

Of the ocean, the mist, and the wind
Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak,

Of the roebuck, the hart, and the hind:

Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Though bleak thy dun islands

appear, Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans,

That roam on these mountains so drear !

A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home,

Could never thy ardour restrain ;
The marshalld array of imperial Rome

Essay'd thy proud spirit in vain !
Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth,

Of genius unshackled and free,
The muses have left all the vales of the south,

My loved Caledonia, for thee!

Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps,

Where loveliness slumbers at even,

While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps

A calm little motionless heaven!
Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill,

Of the storm and the proud rolling wave-
Yes, thou art the land of fair liberty still,

And the land of my forefathers' grave!

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