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Th To me I was not legend, nor tale to the ear,

Aod listed my lay, while she turn'd from mine cye? non / Ob! would it bad been so! Oh! would that her eye

This simple tablet marks a father's bier,
And those he loved in life, in death are near;

For him, for them, a daughter bade it rise,
Memorial of domestic charities.

«O Tell me, harper, wherefore flow

Thy wayward notes of wail and woe
Still wouldst thou know why, o'er the marble spread, Far down the desert of Glencoe,
In female grace the willow droops her head;

Where none may list their melody?
Why on her branches, silent and unstrung,

Say, harp'st thou to the mists that fly,
The miostrel harp is emblematic hung;

Or to the dun deer glancing by,
What poet's voice is smother'd bere in dust,

Or to the eagle that from high
Till waked to join the chorus of the just,--

Screams chorus to thy minstrelsy?»
Lo! one brief line an answer sad supplies,
Honour'd, beloved, and mourn'd, here SEWARD lies!

« No, not to these, for they have rest,-Her worth, her warmth of heart, let friendship say, The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, Go seek her genius in her living lay.

The stag lis lair, the erne her nest,

Abode of lone security,

But those for whom I pour the lay,

Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain gray, Once again, but how changed since my wanderings Not this deep dell that slırouds from day, began

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.
I have heard the deep voice of the Lagan and Bann,
And the pipes of Cambrassil resound to the roar,

« Their flag was furld, and mute their drum, That wearies the echoes of fair Tullamore.

The very household dogs were dumb,
Alas! my poor bosom, and why shouldst thou burn; Unwont to bay at guests that come
With the scenes of my youth can its raptures return?

In guise of hospitality.
Can I live the dear life of delusion again,

His blithest notes the piper plied,
That flowd when these echoes first mix'd with my strain? Her gayest suood the maiden tied,

The dame her distaff Hung aside,
It was thea that around me, though poor and unknown, To tend lser kindly housewifery.
High spells of mysterious enchantment were thrown :
The streams were of silver, of diamond the dew,

« The liand that mingled in the meal,
The land was an Eden, for fancy was new.

At midnight drew the felon steel, troba el I had heard of our bards, and my soul was on fire

And gave the host's kind breast to feel
At the rush of their verse and the sweep of their lyre : Meed for his hospitality!

The friendly hearth which wari'd that hand,
But a vision of noontide, distinguish'd and clear.

At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
Ultonia's old heroes awoke at the call,

That bade destruction's flames expand
Aud reocw'd the wild pomp of the chase and the hall;

Their red and fearful blazonry.
And the standard of Fion flashid fierce from on high,
Like a burst of the sun when the tempest is nigh.'

« Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, It seem'd that the barp of green Erin once more

Nor infancy's uppitied plain,
Could renew all the glories she boasted of yore.-

More than the warrior's groan, could gain
Yet why at remeinbrance, fond heart, shouldst thou

Respite from rutlıless butchery!

The winter wind that whistled shirill,
They were days of delusion, and cannot return.

The shows that night that choked the hill,

Though wild and pitiless, had still
But was she too a phantom, the maid who stood by,

Far more than soutlırou clemency.
Was she, too, a vision, just glancing to view,
Then dispersed in the sun-bcam or melted to dew?

« Long have my harp's best notes been gone,

Few are its strings, and faint their tone,
Had bern but a star-glance that shot through the sky,

They can but sound in desert loge
Aud her voice that was moulded to melody's thrill,

Their gray-baird master's misery.
llad been but a zeplıyr that sigh'd and was still!

Were each gray bair a minstrel string,

Each chord should imprecations fling,
Oh! would it had been so! Not then this poor heart

Till startled Scotland loud should ring,
llad learu'd the sad lesson, to love and to part;

Revenge for blood and treachery!'»
To bear, ubassisted, its burihen of care,
While I toild for the wealth I liad no one to sliare.
Not then had I said, when life's summer was done,
And the hours of her autumn were fast speeding on,

• Take the faine and the riches ye brought in your train,

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY OF THE FAMILY LEGEND. And restore me the dream of my spring-tide again!»

"T is sweet to hear expiring summer's sich,
In ancient Irish poetry, the standard of Fion, or Fingal, is
called the $2n-burst, an epitbot feebly renderod by thu Sun-beum of

Through forests tioged with russet, wail and die;
T is sweet and sad the latest notes to hear
Of distant music, dying on the car;

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But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand, In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
We list the legends of our native land,

Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean should Link'd as they come with every tender tie,

boil: Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

On the brave vessel's gunnel I drapk bis bonnail,

And farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail. Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon, Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son. Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet southland gale! Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,

Like the sighs of his people, breathe soft on his sail; Or till Acadia's' winter-fetter'd soil,

Be prolong'd as regret that his vassals must know, He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes, Be fair as their faith, and sincere as their woe: And as he hears, what dear illusions rise!

Be so soft, and so fair, and so faithful, sweet gale, It opens on his soul his native dell,

Wafting onward Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! The woods wild waving, and the water's swell; Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain, Be his pilot experienced, and trusty, and wise, The mossy cairn that hides the hero slain;

To measure the seas and to study the skies: The cot beneath whose simple porch were told, May be hoist all his canvas from streamer lo deck, By gray-hair'd patriarch, the tales of old,

But O! crowd it higher when wafting him backThe infant group that hush'd their sports the while, Till the cliffs of Skooroora, and Conan's glad vale, And the dear maid who listend with a smile. Shall welcome Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail! The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain, Is denizen of Scotland once again.

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Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined,
And sleep they in the poet's gifted mind?
Oh no! for she, within whose mighty page
Each tyrant passion shows his woe and rage,
Has felt the wizard influence they inspire,
And to your own traditions tuned her lyre.
Yourselves shall judge—whoe'er has raised the sail
By Mull's dark coast has heard this evening's tale.
The plaided boatman, resting on his oar,
Points to the fatal rock amid the roar
Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night
Our bumble stage shall offer to your sight;
Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give
Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live;
More proudly yet, should Caledon approve
The filial token of a daughter's love!

So sung the old Bard, in the grief of his heart,
When he saw his loved lord from his people depart,
Now mute on thy mountains, 0 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 Kictail.

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, FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,

Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame ?

No, son of Fitzgerald ! in accents of woe,

The song thou hast loved o'er thy coflin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail


That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail, The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic In vaio, the bright course of thy talents to wrong, air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue, upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore dis- For brighter o'cr all her obstructions arose tinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They The glow of the genius they could not oppose ; were composed by the family bard upon the departure And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael, of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintal' in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,

All a father could hope, all a friend could approve ; FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North,

What 'vails it the tale of thy sorrows to tell,The Lord of Lochcarron, Glensheil, and Seaforth;

Io the spring-time of youth and of promise they MI! To the chieftain this morning his course who began,

Of the line of Fitzgerald remains not a male, Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan.

To bear the proud name of the Chief of Kintail. For a far foreign land lie has hoisted luis sail, Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of kintail!

And thou, geatle dame, who must bear to thy grief, O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,

For thy clan and thy country, the cares of a chick, May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,

Bonail', or Bonallez, the old Scoutisha praxe for a free Acadia, or Nova Scotia.

par:ing with a friend.

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Though thus be dealt in petty treasoa,

He loved them both in equal measure; Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.


They owed the conquest to his arm,

And then his liege-lord said, « The heart that has for honour beat,

By bliss must be repaid, -
My daughter Isabel and thou

Shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave,

She fairest of the fair.»
And then they bound the holy knot

Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,

If hearts and bands combine; And every lord and lady bright,

That were in chapel there, Cried, « Honour'd be the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair !»


O Dread was the time, and more dreadful cbe omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in rain, And, beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foemen,

Purt 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 sorros,

And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain ; He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,

But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim. And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,

While they hallow the goblet that flows to his man Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,

In coils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,

To light the loug darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,

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.

THE TROUBADOUR. Glowing with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good-morrow: My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my true love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour.» And while he march'd with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung, As faithful to his favourite maid,

The miostrel burden still be sung: 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.» E'en 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 focman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exuiting slave : « My life it is my country's right,

My heart it is my lady's bower; For love and fame to fill in fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour.»

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Nor forget Hıs gray head, who, all dark in afflietion,

Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,

The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By luis firmness unmoved in success or disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to Put join the praise of his Master,

Though a fear stain the goblet that flows to his pame

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad measure,

The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright rexure

The wisdom that plann'd, and the real that obey a' Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like bis glory,

Forget not our own brave Dalhousie and GRENS; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their stry,

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

FROM THE FRENCH. Ir chanced that Cupid on a season,

By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason

Or Folly should partake his bed. What does he then ?-Upon my life,

"T was bad example for a deityIle takes me Reason for his wife,

And Folly for his hours of gaiety,


BUCCLELGII, At a great Foot-ball Watch on Carterkaryk. From the brown crest of Newark its summons tendig

Our signal is waving in smoke and in fame, And each forester blithe, from his mountaia descendio

Bounds light o'er the heather to joia in the game.


May the Forest still flourish, both Borough and LandThen up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her,

ward, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more; From the hall of the peer to the herd's ingle-nook; In sport we 'll attend her, in battle defend her, And huzza ! my brave hearts, for BUCCLEUG! and his With heart and with hand, like our fathers before.


For the King and the Country, the Clan and the Duke! When the southern invader spread waste and disorder,

At the glance of her cresceats he paused and withdrew, Then up with the Banner, let forest winds fan her, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, She has blazed over Ettrick eight ages and more ; The Flowers of the Forest, the Bands of BUCCLEUGH. In sport we 'U attend her, in battle defend her, Then up with the Banner, etc.

With heart and with hand, like our fathers before. A stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her,

No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround;
But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her,
A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground.

Then up with the banner, etc.

We forget each contention of civil dissension, of yore, in old England, it was not thought good

And hail like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and CAR; To carry two visages under one hood;
And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, What should folks say to you, who have faces such plenty,
As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. That from under one hood you last night show'd us twenty?
Then up with the Banner, etc.

Stand forth, arch deceiver! and tell us, in truth,

Are you handsome or ugly? in age, or in youth? Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, Man, woman, or child ? or a dog, or a mouse?

And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, Or are you, at once, each live thing in the house? There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, Each live thing did I ask? each dead implement too! And life is itself but a game at foot-ball.

A work-shop in your person-saw, chisel, and screw! Then up with the Banner, etc.

Above all, are you one individual ? I know

You must be, at the least, Alexandre and Co. And when it is over, we 'll drink a blithe measure But I think you 're a troop-an assemblage-a mob

To each laird and each lady that witness'd our fun, And that I, as the sheriff, must take up the job, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, And, instead of rehearsing your wonders in verse, To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Must read you the riot-act, and bid you disperse ! Then up with the Banner, etc.

Abbotsford, 23d April, 1824.

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