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XXXV.

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.
XXXVI.

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.'
XXXVII.

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."
XXXVIII.

The ring hath caught the lady's eye,
She views it close and near,
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.

XXXIX.

But loud she utter'd thanks to heaven,
And every saintly power,

That had return'd the Moringer
Before the midnight hour;

WAR-SONG

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.

XL.

"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.
XLI.

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."

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Miscellanies.

OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.

Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the honourable lieutenant-colonel

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general con- Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of

quest.

Had we a difference with some petty isle,

Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,

The taking in of some rebellious lord,

Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued:
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,
The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords, that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inheritance,
And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
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;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.-

Bonduca.

THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in

arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate."

To horse! to horse! tne standard flies,
The bugles sound the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,

424

With Scotland's hardy thistle crowned;
We boast the red and blue.*
Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Duli Holland's tardy train;

Their ravished toys though Romans mourn,
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

O! had they marked the avenging callt
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheeks in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?
No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;

Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our king, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tricolour,

Or footstep of invader rude,

With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore,-

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!

Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
Combined by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is, Laws and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!

THE NORMAN HORSE-SHOE. Air-The War-song of the Men of Glamorgan. THE Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and possessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of Neville, baron of Chepstow, lords-marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan: Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of a very ancient castle.

The royal colours.

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for battle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the coursers' thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground!
From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of morn,
Was heard afar the bugle horn;
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.

They swore their banners broad should gleam,
In crimson light, on Rymny's stream;
They vowed, Caerphili's sod should feel
The Norman charger's spurning heel.
And sooth they swore,-the sun arose,
And Rymny's wave with crimson glows,
For Clare's red banner, floating wide,
Rolled down the stream to Severn's tide!
And sooth they vowed-the trampled green
Showed where hot Neville's charge had been:
In every sable hoof tramp stood

A Norman horseman's curdling blood!
Old Chepstow's brides may curse the toil
That armed stout Clare for Cambrian broil;
Their orphans long the art may rue,
For Neville's war-horse forged the shoe.
No more the stamp of armed steed
Shall dint Glamorgan's velvet mead;
Nor trace be there, in early spring,
Save of the fairies' emerald ring.

THE LAST WORDS OF CADWALLON.
Air-Dafydd y Garreg-wen."

THERE is a tradition that Dafydd y Garreg-wen, a famous Welsh bard, being on his death-bed, called for his harp, and composed the sweet melancholy air to which these verses are united, requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.

DINAS EMLINN, lament, for the moment is nigh, When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die; No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave, And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave. In spring and in autumn, thy glories of shade Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade; For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue, That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that

sung.

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride, And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side; But where is the harp shall give life to their name? And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame? And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;

What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye, When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall

die?

Then adieu, silver Teivi! I quit thy loved scene, To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold.

The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th of August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, en- And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, couraged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids! free people upon the continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved.

• David of the white Rock.

And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell,

Farewell, my lov'd harp! my last treasure, farewell!

THE MAID OF TORO.

9, 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 bend-
ing;

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 yon 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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In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

1 CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;

All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was
bending,

And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer
had died.

Dark green was the spot mid the brown moun-
tain-heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay,

Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless
clay.

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

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

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.

"War 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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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 iny friend Mr. Terry's drama of Guy Mannering.

The pibroch of Donald the Black,

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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,

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;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward tura,
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;

16 I will never go with him."

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THE Moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,

And the clan has a name that is nameless by day!
Then gather, gather, gather, Gregalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
Then haloo, Gregalach! haloo, Gregalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Gregalach, &c.
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and
her towers,

Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours:

We're landless, landless, landless, Gregalach!
Landless, landless, landless, &c.

But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord,
Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Gregalach!
Courage, courage, courage, &c.

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 tville; 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."

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