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And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, Farewell, my lov'd harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE MAID OF TORO.

O, LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood,

All as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow, Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the flood. "O, saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;

Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry; Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending, My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle, With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail, Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle, And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale. Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; Slowly approaching a warrior was seen; Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, Cleft was his helmet, and wo was his mien. "O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!

O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low! Deadly cold on you heath thy brave Henry is lying; And fast through the woodland approaches the

foe."

Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow, And scarce could she hear them, benumb'd with despair:

And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, For ever he set to the brave and the fair.

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The much loved remains of her master defended, And chased the hill fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was

clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,

slumber?

When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?

How many long days and long weeks didst thou number,

Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O! was it meet, that, no requium read o'er him,

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,

Unhonoured the pilgrim from life should depart? When a prince to the fate of the peasant has yielded,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;

With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming;

In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain
lamb;

When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in

stature,

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,

Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

JOCK OF HAZELDEAN.
Air-A Border Melody.

THE first stanza of this ballad is ancient. The others were written for Mr. Campbell's Albyn's Anthology.

"WHY weep ye by the tide, ladie? Why weep ye by the tide?

I'll wed ye to my youngest son,
And ye sall be his bride:
And ye sall be his bride, ladie,
Sae comely to be seen"-
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"Now let this wilful grief be done,
And dry that cheek so pale;
Young Frank is chief of Errington,
And lord of Langley-dale;
His step is first in peaceful ha',

His sword in battle keen”—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

"A chain o' gold ye sall not lack, Nor braid to bind your hair;

Nor mettled hound, nor managed hawk,
Nor palfrey fresh and fair;

And you, the foremost o' them a',
Shall ride our forest queen"—
But aye she loot the tears down fa'
For Jock of Hazeldean.

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O hush thee, my babie, the time soon will come, When thy sleep shall be broken by trumpet and

drum;

Then hush thee, my darling, take rest while you

may,

For strife comes with manhood, and waking with day.

O ho ro, i ri ri, &c.

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU. Written for Albyn's Anthology. Air-Piobair of Dhonuil Duidh.t THIS is a very ancient pibroch belonging to the clan Mac-Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, lanched from the Isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the earls of Marr and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior to his own. The words of the set theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: Piobaireachd Dhonui!, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.

The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,
The pipe-summons of Donald the Black,

The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place! at Inverlochy.

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,
Pibroch of Donuil,

Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons!
Come in your war array,
Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,

"Sleep on till day." These words, adopted to a melody somewhat different from the original, are sung in friend Mr. Terry's drama of Guy Mannering.

iny

The pibroch of Donald the Black,

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IN the original Gaelic, the lady makes protestations that she will not go with the Red earl's son until the swan should build in the cliff, and the eagle in the lake-until one mountain should change places with another, and so forth. It is but fair to add, that there is no authority for supposing that she altered her mind--except the vehemence of her protestation.

HEAR what highland Nora said,
"The earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,

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I would not wed the earlie's son. "A maiden's vows," old Callum spoke, "Are lightly made, and lightly broke; The heather on the mountain's height Begins to bloom in purple light; The frost-wind soon shall sweep away That lustre deep from glen and brae; Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone, May blithly wed the earlie's son." "The swan," she said, "the lake's clear breast May barter for the eagle's nest;

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The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush Kilchurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the earlie's son."

Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild swan made,
Ben-Cruaichan stands as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No highland brogue has turned the heel;

I will never go with him.”

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If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,

Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!

Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Gregalach!

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Mac-Gregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever! Come then, Gregalach, come then, Gregalach, Come then, come then, come then, &c. Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,

O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer,

And the rocks of Craig Royston like icicles melt, Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt! Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach! Gather, gather, gather, &c.

DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN.

Air-Malcolm Caird's come again.†
CHORUS.

DONALD Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donala Caird's come again! Donald Caird can lilt and sing, Blithly dance the hieland fling, Drink till the gudeman be blind, Fleech till the gudewife be kind; Hoop a leglen, clout a pan, Or crack a pow wi' ony man; Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again.

"The Mac-Gregor is come." + Caird signifies Tinker.

Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird can wire a maukin, Kens the wiles o' dun deer staukin; Leisters kipper, makes a shift To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift; Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers, He can wauk when they are sleepers; Not for bountith or reward Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird. Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Gar the bagpipes hum amain, Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird can drink a gill Fast as hostler-wife can fill; Ilka ane that sells good liquor Kens how Donald bends a bicker. When he's fou he's stout and saucy, Keeps the cantle of the cawsey; Highland chief and lowland laird, Maun gi'e room to Donald Caird!

Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! Steek the amrie, lock the kist, Else some gear may weel be mist; Donald Caird finds orra things Where Allan Gregor fand the tings; Dunts of kebbeck, taits of woo, Whiles a hen and whiles a sow, Webs or duds frae hedge or yard'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird!

Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Dinna let the shirra ken Donald Caird's come again!

On Donald Caird the doom was stern,
Craig to tether, legs to airn;
But Donald Caird, wi' mickle study,
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie;
Rings of airn, and bolts of steel,
Fell like ice frae hand and heel!
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!

Donald Caird's come again! Donald Caird's come again! Dinna let the justice ken Donald Caird's come again!

MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.

Air-Cha till mi tuille."

MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, "Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon," "I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with

"We return no more."

which the emigrants from the west highlands and isles usually take leave of their native shore.

MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the gray castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;/ Gleam war-axe and broad sword, clang target and! quiver,

As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Dunvegan for ever! Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming; Farewell each dark glen, in which red deer are roaming; Farewell lonely SKYE, to lake, mountain, and river, Macleod may return but Mackrimmon, shall never! "Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping; To each minstrel delusion, farewell!-and for

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Along the silver streams of Tweed,
"Tis blith the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings:
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
'Tis blith along the midnight tide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like genii, armed with fiery spears.

'Tis blith at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alwyn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;†
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

THE SUN UPON THE WIERDLAW-HILL Air-Rimhin aluin 'stu me un.

The air, composed by the editor of Albyn's Anthology. The words written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE Sun upon the Wierdlaw-hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet, The westland wind is hush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree,—

Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me?

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THE MAID OF ISLA.
Air-The Maid of Isla.

Written for Mr. George Thomson's Scottish Me lodies.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff
Contend with ocean gallantly?

Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,
And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge?-

OIsla's maid, she seeks her home.
O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,
Her white wing gleams through mist and spray,
Against the storm-clad, louring dark,

As to the rock she wheels away;Where clouds are dark and billows rave, Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?

O maid of Isla, 'tis her home.

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is yon wintery cliff,

Where sea-birds close their wearied wing.

Alwyn, the seat of the lord Somerville, now, alas! untenanted, by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the author's nearest neighbour and intimate

+Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time.

•Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which friend. the poet had been engaged with some friends.

Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come;
For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Allan Vourich find his home.

THE FORAY.

Set to music by John Whitefield, Mus. Doc. Cam.
THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,
And the last flask of wine in our goblets is red;
Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and be-
gone!

There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be

won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with ours,
For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the

towers,

And strive to distinguish, through tempest and
gloom,

The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.
The rain is descending; the wind rises loud;
And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a
cloud;

'Tis the better, my mates, for the warder's dull eye
Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.
Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blith gray!
There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his
weigh;

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane
Shall marshal your march through the darkness
and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown;
One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and be-
gone!-
To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the
slain;
To their health, and their glee, that see Teviot
again!

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH,
Air-Ymdaith Mionge.

Written for Mr. George Thomson's Welch Melo

dies.

ETHELRID, or Olfrid, king of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted, is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
March'd from Bangor's fair abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,
O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand!
Such was the divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill;
Wo to Brochmael's feeble hand,
Wo to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Wo to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!
Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

Sing O miserere, Domine!
Bangor! o'er the murder wail,
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woful march;*
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return:
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

THE SEARCH AFTER HAPPINESS;

OR

THE QUEST OF SULTAUN SOLIMAUN,
Written in 1817.

O, FOR a glance of that gay muse's eye,

That lighten'd on Bandello's laughing tale, And twinkled with a lustre shrewd and sly,

When Giam Battista bade her vision hail!t Yet fear not, ladies, the naive detail

Given by the natives of that land canorous;
Italian license loves to leap the pale,

We Britons have the fear of shame before us,
And, if not wise in mirth, at least must be decorous.
In the far eastern clime, no great while since,
Lived sultaun Solimaun, a mighty prince,
Whose eyes, as oft as they performed their round,
Beheld all others fix'd upon the ground;
Whose ears receiv'd the same unvaried phrase,
"Sultan! thy vassal hears, and he obeys!"
All have their tastes-this may the fancy strike
Of such grave folks as pomp and grandeur like;
For me, I love the honest heart and warm
Of monarch who can amble round his farm,
or, when the toil of state no more annoy's,
In chimney-corner seek domestic joys-
love a prince will bid the bottle pass,
Exchanging with his subjects glance and glass;
In fitting time, can, gayest of the gay,
Keep up the jest and mingle in the lay-
Such monarchs best our free-born humours suit,
But despots must be stately, stern, and mute.
This Solimaun, Serendib had in sway—
And where's Serendib? may some critic say.-
Good lack, mine honest friend, consult the chart,
Scare not my Pegasus before I start!
If Rennell has it not, you'll find, mayhap,
The isle laid down in captain Sinbad's map,-
Famed mariner! whose merciless narrations
Drove every friend and kinsman out of patience,

William of Malmesbury says, that in his time the extent of the ruins of the monastery bore ample witness to the desolation occasioned by the massacre;-tot semiruti parietes ecclesiarum, tot anfractus porticum, tanta turba ruderum quantum vix alibi cernas.

The hint of the following tale is taken from La Camiscia Magica, a novel of Giam Battista Casti.

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