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The mountain bull,* he bent his brows,

THE NOBLE MORINGER: And gored his sides again.

AN ANCIENT BALLA), Then lost was banner, spear, and shield,

Translated from the German. At Sempach in the fight,

The original of these verses oceurs in a collece The eloister vaults at Konigsfield

tion of German popular songs, entitled Sammlung Hold many ap Austrian knight.

Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807, published by It was the archduke Leopold,

Messrs. Busching and Von der Hagen, both, and So lordly would he ride,

more especially the last, distinguished for their But he came against the Switzer churls,

acquaintance with the ancient popular poetry and And they slew him in his pride.

legendary history of Germany

In the German editor's notice of the ballad, it The heifer said unto the bull,

is stated to bave been extracted from a manuscript “ And shall I not complain?

Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain to St. There eame a foreign nobleman

Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears the date To milk me on the plaiu.

1533; and the song is stated by the author to bare. “ One thrust of thine outrageous horn been generally sung in the neighbourhood at that Has gall’d the knight so sore,

early period. Thomann, as quoted by the German That to the churchyard he is borne,

editor, seenis faithfully to have believed the event To range our glens no more.”—

he narrates. He quotes tomb-stones and obituaries An Austrian noble left the stour,

to prove the existence of the personages of the And fast the flight ’gan take;

ballad, and discovers that there actually died os

the 11th May, 13 i9, a lady Von Neuffen, countess And he arrived in luekless hour

of Marstetten, who was by birth of the house of At Sempach on the lake.

Moringer. This lady he supposes to have been He and his squire a fisher callid,

Moringer's daughter mentioned in the ballad. He (His name was Hans Von Rot)

quotes the same authority for the death of Berck“For love, or meed, or charity,

hold Von Neuffen in the same year. The editors, Receive us in thy boat.”

on the whole, seem to embrace the opinion of proTheir anxious call the fisher heard,

fessor Smith, of Ulm, who, from the language of

the ballad, ascribes its date to the 15th century. And, glad the meed to win,

The legend itself turns on an incident not pecuHis shallop to the shore he steerd,

liar to Germany, and which perhaps was not unAnd took the flyers in.

likely to happen in more instances than one, when And while against the tide and wind

crusaders abode long in the Holy Land, and their Hans stoully row'd his way,

disconsolate dames received no tidings of their The noble to his follower sign'd

fate. A story very similar in circumstances, but He should the boatman slay.

without the miraculous machinery of saint Tho

mas, is told of one of the ancient lords of HaighThe fisher's back was to them turu’d,

hall, in Lancashire, the patrimonial inheritance of The squire his dagger drew,

the late countess of Balcarras; and the particulars Hans saw his shadow in the lake,

are represented on stained glass upon a window The boat he overthrew.

in that ancient manor-house. He whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, He stunn'd them with his oar;

1. “Now, drink ye deep, my gentle sirs, You'll ne'er stab boatman more.

O, will you hear a knightly tale

of old Bohemian day, “Two gilded fishes in the lake

It was the noble Moringer This morning have I caught,

In wedlock bed he lay; Their silver scales may much avail,

He halsed and kissed his dearest dame, Their carrion flesh is naught."

That was as sweet as May, It was a messenger of wo

And said, “Now, lady of my heart, Has sought the Austrian land;

Attend the words I say. “Ah! gracious lady, evil news!

II. My lord lies on the strand.

“ 'Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage

Unto a distant shrine, “ At Sempach, on the battle-field, His bloody corpse lies there."

And I must seek saint Thomas-land, " Ah, gracious God!” the lady cried,

And leave the land that's mine; “ What tidings of despair!”

Here shalt thou dwell the while in state,

So thou wilt pledge thy fay, Now, would you know the minstrel wight, That ihou for my return wilt wait Who sings of strife so stern,

Seven twelvemonths and a day.” Albert the Souter is he hight,

III. A burgher of Lucerne.

Then out and spoke that lady bright, A merry man was he, I wot,

Sore troubled in her neer, The night he made the lay,

“Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, Returning from the bloody spot,

What order takest thou here; Where God had judged the day.

And who shall lead thy vassal band,

And hold thy lordly sway, • A pun on the Urus, or wild bull, which gives name to And be thy lady's guardian true the canton of Uri.

When thou art far away?"

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Out spoke the noble Moringer,

« Of that have thou no care, There's many a valiant gentleman

Of me holds living fair;
The trustiest shall rule my land,

My vassals and my state,
And be a guardian tried and true
To thee, my lovely mate.

“ As christian-man, I needs must keep

The vow which I have plight;
When I am far in foreign land,

Remember thy true knight;
And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve,

For vain were sorrow now,
But grant thy Moringer his leave,
Since God hath heard his vow.

It was the noble Moringer

From bed he made him bowne,
And met him there his chamberlain,

With ewer and with gown:
He flung the mantle on his back,

'Twas furr'd with miniver,
He dipp'd his band in water cold,
And bathed his forehead fair.

VII. “ Now hear,” he said, “ sir Chamberlain,

True vassal art thou mine, And such the trust that I repose

In that proved worth of thine,
For seven years shalt thou rule my towers,

And lead my vassal train,
And pledge thee for my lady's faith
Till I return again.”

The chamberlain was blunt and true,

And sturdily said he,
“ Abide, my lord, and rule your own,

And take this rede from me;
That woman's faith's a brittle trust-

Seven twelvemonths didst thou say?
I'll pledge me for no lady's truth
Beyond the seventh fair day."

The noble baron turn'd him round,

His heart was full of care,
His gallant esquire stood him nigh

He was Marstetten's heir,
To whom he spoke right anxiously,

“ Thou trusty squire to me,
Wilt thou receive this weighty trust
When I am o'er the sea?

X. “ To watch and ward my castle strong,

And to protect my land,
And to the hunting or the host

To lead my vassal band;
And pledge thee for my lady's faith,

Till seven long years are gone,
And guard her as our lady dear
Was guarded by saint John.”

Marstetten's heir was kind and true,

But fiery, hot, and young,
And readily he answer made,

With too presumptuons tongue, “ My noble lord, cast care away,

And on your journey wend,

And trust this charge to me until
Your pilgrimage have end.

“Rrly upon my plighted faith,

Which shall be truly tried, To guard your lands, and ward your towers,

And with your vassals ride;
And for your lovely lady's faith,

So virtuous and so dear,
I'll gage my head it knows no change,
Be absent thirty year.”

The noble Moringer took cheer

When thus he heard him speak,
And doubt forsook his troubled brow,

And sorrow left his cheek;
A long adieu he bids to all

Hoists top-sails and away,
And wanders in saint Thomas-land
Seven twelvemonths and a day.

It was the noble Moringer

Within an orchard slept,
When on the baron's slumbering sense

A boding vision crept;
And whisper'd in his ear a voice,

“ 'Tis time, sir knight, to wake, Thy lady and thine heritage Another master take.

“ Thy tower another banner knows,

Thy steeds another rein,
And stoop them to another's will

Thy gallant vassal train;
And she, the lady of thy love,

So faithful once and fair,
This night, within thy father's hall,
She weds Marstetten's heir."

It is the noble Moringer

Starts up and tears his beard,
“Oh would that I had ne'er been born!

What tidings have I heard!
To lose my lordship and my lands

The less would be my care,
But, God! that e'er a squire untrue
Should wed my lady fair!

“O good saint Thomas, hear,” he pray’d,

• My patron saint art thou, A traitor robs me of my land

Even while I pay my vow! My wife he brings to infamy

That was so pure of name,
And I am far in foreign land,
And must endure the shame. "

It was the good saint Thomas, then,

Who heard his pilgrim's prayer;
And sent a sleep so deep and dead

That it o'erpower'd his care; He waked in fair Bohemian land,

Outstretch'd beside a rill,
High on the right a castle stood,
Low on the left a mill.

The Moringer he started up.

As one from spell unbound,
And, dizzy with surprise and joy,

Gazed wildly all around;

“I know my father's ancient towers,

The mill, the stream I know,
Now blessed be my patron saint
Who cheer'd his pilgrim's wo!”

He leant upon his pilgrim staff,

And to the mill he drew,
So alter'd was his goodly form,

That none their master knew;
T'he baron to the miller said,

“ Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be?

The miller answer'd him again,

“ He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land

Did a new bridegroom choose;
Her husband died in distant land,

Such is the constant word,
His death sits heavy on our souls,
He was a worthy lord.

« Of him I held the little mill

Which wins me living free, God rest the baron in his grave,

He still was kind to me;
And when saint Martin's tide comes round,

And millers take their toll,
The priest that prays for Moringer
Shall have both cope and stole.

It was the noble Moringer

To climb the hill began,
And stood before the bolted gate

A wo and weary man;
“ Now help me, every saint in heaven,

That can compassion take,
To gain the entrance of my hall
This wofut match to break.”

His very knock it sounded sad,

His call was sad and slow,
For heart and head, and voice and hand,

Were heavy all with wo;
And to the warder thus he spoke:

“ Friend, to thy lady say,
A pilgrim from saint Thomas-land
Craves harbour for a day.

XXV. «« l've wander'd many a weary step,

My strength is well nigh done, And if she turn me from her gate

l'll see no morrow's sun;
1 pray, for sweet saint Thomas' sake,

A pilgrim's bed and dole,
And for the sake of Moringer's,
Her once loved husband's soul.”

It was the stalwart warder then

He came his dame before,
A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd

Stands at the castle door;
And prays, for sweet saint Thomas’ sake,

For harbour and for dole,
And for the sake of Moringer,
Thy noble husband's soul.”

The lady's gentle heart was moved,

“ Do up the gate,” she said,

“ And bid the wanderer welcome be

To banquet and to bed:
And since he names my husband's dame,

So that he lists to stay,
These towers shall be his harbourage
A twelve-month and a day."

It was the stalwart warder then

Undid the portal broad,
It was the noble Moringer

That o'er the threshold strode; “And have thou thanks, kind heaven," he said,

Though from a man of sui,
That the true lord stands here once more
His castle gate within.”

Then up the hall paced Moringer,

His step was sad and slow,
It sat full heavy on his heart,

None seem'd their lord to know; He sat him on a lowly bench,

Oppress'd with wo and wrong,
Short space he sat, but ne'er to him
Seem'd little space so long.

Now spent was day, and feasting o'er,

And come was evening hour,
The time was nigh when new-made brides

Retire to nuptial bower; “ Our castle's wont,” a brides-man said,

“ Hath been both firm and long, No guest to harbour in our halls Till he shall chant a song."

XXXI. Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there,

As he sat by the bride, “My merry minstrel folks," quoth he,

“ Lay shalm and harp aside; Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay,

The castle's rule to hold;
And well his guerdon will I pay
With garment and with gold.”

“ Chill flows the lay of frozen age,”

'Twas thus the pilgrim sung,
« Nor golden meed, nor garment gay,

Unlocks her heavy tongue;
Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay,

At board as rich as thine,
And by my side as fair a bride,
With all her charms, was mine.

« But time traced furrows on my face,

And I grew silver-hair'd,
For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth,

She left this brow and beard;
Unce rich, but now a palmer poor,

I tread life's latest stage,
And mingle with your bridal mirth
The lay of frozen age."

It was the noble lady there

This woful lay that hears,
And for the aged pilgrim's grief

Her eye was dimm’d with tears
She bade her gallant cup-bearer

A golden beaker take,
And bear it to the palmer poor

To quaff it for her sake.

It was the noble Moringer

That dropp'd, amid the wine,
A bridal-ring of burning gold,

So costly and so fine;
Now listen, gentles, to my song,

It tells you but the sooth,
'Twas with that very ring of gold
He pledged his bridal truth.

Then to the cup-bearer he said,

“ Do me one kindly deed,
And should my better days return,

Full rich shall be thy meed;
Bear back the golden cup again
To yonder bride so gay,
And crave her, of her courtesy,
To pledge the palmer gray.'

The cup-bearer was courtly bred,

Nor was the boon denied,
The golden cup he took again,

And bore it to the bride;
“ Lady,” he said, “your reverend guest

Sends this, and bids me pray,
That, in thy noble courtesy,
Thou pledge the palmer gray.”

The ring bath caught the lady's eye,

She views it close and pear,
Then might you hear her shriek aloud,

“ The Moringer is here!”
Then might you see her start from seat,

While tears in torrents fell,
But whether 'twas for joy or wo,
The ladies best can tell.

But loud she utter'd thanks to heaven,

And every saintly power,
That had return'd the Moringer

Before the midnight hour;

And loud she utter'd vow on vow,

That never was there bride
That had like her preserved her troth,
Or been so sorely tried.

“ Yes, here I claim the praise,” she said,

“ To constant matrons due,
Who keep the troth that they have plight

So steadfastly and true;
For count the term how'er you will,

So that you count aright,
Seven twelvemonths and a day are out
When bells toll twelve to-night.

It was Marstetten then rose up,

His falchion there he drew,
He kneel'd before the Moringer,

And down his weapon threw;
“ My oath and knightly faith are broke,"

These were the words he said,
“Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword,
And take thy vassal's head.”

The noble Moringer he smiled,

And then aloud did say,
“ He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd

Seven twelvemonths and a day.
My daughter now hath fifteen years,

Fame speaks her sweet and fair,
I give her for the bride you lose,
And name her for my heir.

« The young bridegroom hath youthful bride

The old bridegroom the old,
Whose faith was kept till term and tide

So punctually were told;
But blessings on the warder kind

That oped my castle gate,
For had I come at morrow tide,

I came a day too late.”


1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed

at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.

Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, Nennius, Is not peace the end of arms? Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general con- Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of

commanded by the honourable lieutenant-colonel quest. Had we a difference with some petty isle,

arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which The taking in of some rebellious lord,

furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined Or making head against a slight commotion, After a day of blood, peace might be argued:

volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from But where we grapple for the land we live on,

the city and county, and two corps of artillery, The liberty we hold more dear than life,

each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, force, above all others, might, in similar circumAnd, with those, swords, that know no end of battle Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,

stances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance, Galgacus: " Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores Ard, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest, vestros et posteros cogitate.And, where they march, but measure out more ground To add to Rome It must not be.-No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;

To horse! to horse! tne standard flies, But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,

The bugles sound the call; That thinks to graft himself into my stock,

The Gallic navy stems the seas, Must first begin his kindred under ground,

The voice of battle's on the breeze, And be allied in ashes.


Arouse ye, one and all! The following War-song was written during the From high Dunedin's towers we come, apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volun- A band of brothers true; teers, to which it was addressed, was raised in Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,

With Scotland's hardy thistle crowned;

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds, We boast the red and blue.

And hammers din and anvil sounds,

And armourers, with iron toil, Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown

Barb many a steed for battle's broil. Dulí Holland's tardy train;

Foul fall the hand which bends the steel Their ravished toys though Romans mourn,

Around the coursers' thundering heel, Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

That e'er shall diot a sable wound And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground! 0! had they marked the avenging callt

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn, Their brethren's murder gave,

Was heard afar the bugle horn; Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,

And forth, in banded pomp and pride, Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,

Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride. Sought freedom in the grave!

They swore their banners broad should gleam, Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,

In crimson light, on Rymny's stream; In Freedom's temple born,

They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel Dress our pale cheeks in timid smile,

The Norman charger's spurning heel. To hail a master in our isle,

And sooth they swore,--the sun arose, Or brook a victor's scorn?

And Rymny's wave with crimson glows No! though destruction o'er the land

For Clare's red banner, floating wide, Come pouring as a flood,

Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide! The sun, that sees our falling day,

And sooth they vowed—the trampled green Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,

Showed where hot Neville's charge had been: And set that night in blood.

In every sable hoof tramp stool For gold let Gallia's legions fight,

A Norman horseman's curdling blood! Or plunder's bloody gain;

Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, That armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil; To guard our king, to fence our law,

Their orphans long the art may rue, Nor shall their edge be vain.

For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe. If ever breath of British gale

No more the stamp of armed steed Shall fan the tricolour,

Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead; Or footstep of invader rude,

Nor trace be there, in early spring, With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Save of the fairies' emerald ring. Pollute our happy shore,

THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON. Then farewell home! and farewell friends!

Air-Dafydd y Garreg-wen." Adieu each tender tie!

THERE is a tradition that Dafydd y Garreg-ren, Resolved, we mingle in the tide,

a famous Welsh bard, being on his death-bed, Where charging squadrons furious ride,

called for his harp, and composed the sweet me To conquer or to die.

lancholy air to which these verses are united, reTo horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; questing that it might be performed at his funeral.

High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour's sacred tie,

Dinas EMLinn, lament, for the moment is nigh, Our word is, Laws and Liberty!

When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die; March forward, one and all!

No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,

And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing ware. THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE.

In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade

Unhonour'd shall Aourish, unhonour'd shall fade; Air-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan.

For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the cougue, Tue Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that and possessing only an inferior breed of horses,

sung: were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may mareh in their pride, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyo's side the following verses are supposed to celebrate a But where is the harp shall give life to their name? defeat of Clare, earl of Striguil and Pembroke, And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame! and of Neville, baron of Chepstow, lords-marchers And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which di- Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark vides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: hair; Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye, vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall ancient castle.

die The royal colours.

Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved seede, + The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; less, to remark, that the passive temper with which the With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin tbe Old, Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty; en And adieu, Dinas Emlion! still green be thy shades, which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy free people upon the continent, have, at length, been con- maids! verted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot A state degraded is half enslaved.

• David of the white Rock

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