The and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was im- the head of an army superior to his own. pressed with a belief, which the event verified, words of the set theme, or melody, to which the that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: and hence the Gaelic words, " Cha till mi tuille; Piobaireachd Dhonuil, piobaireachd Dhonull; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon," "I shall Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mack-Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; rimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. well known, from its being the strain with which The pipe summons of Donald the Black, the emigrants from the west highlands and isles The pipe summons of Donald the Black, usually take leave of their native shore. The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place at Inverlochy. Tempest clouds prolong'd the sway Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower, And then th' affrighted prophet's ear Among the sons of men. Had follow'd stout and stern, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more- And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe, Lone on the outskirts of the host, The weary sentinel held post, And heard, through darkness, far aloof, The frequent clang of courser's hoof, Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse; Patrol nor sentinel may hear; When down the destined plain Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead. SONG. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye, That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave, As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste, A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. Wheel the wild dance, While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Wheel the wild dance, Brave sons of France! For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier! Room for the men of steel! Through crest and plate The broadsword's weight, Both head and heart shall feel. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Sons of the spear! You feel us near, In many a ghastly dream; With fancy's eye Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or wo Your disembodied souls take flight Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers, See, the east grows wan- To the wrath of man. At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe The legend heard him say: He sleeps far from his highland heath- His comrades tell the tale On piquet-post, when ebbs the night, FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me The language alternate of rapture and wo: The pang that I feel at our parting can know. Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow, Or pale disappointment, to darken my way, What voice was like thine, that could sing of to morrow, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning, HELLVELLYN. 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. I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and wide; All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yelling, And starting around me the echoes replied. And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather, Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, 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 requiem read o'er him, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as-No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, suage; Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining, The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewail- To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, more. And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him, Unhonour'd 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 With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beam- Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb: Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel, Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me. Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the tree Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. HUNTING SONG. WAKEN, lords and ladies gay, With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear; Waken, lords and ladies gay, The mist has left the mountain gray, Waken, lords and ladies gay, Louder, louder chant the lay, THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. THE forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby: The moon looks through the drifting storm, That mingles with the groaning oak- And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. "Wake ye from your sleep of death, Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The spectre with his bloody hand,* Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time is meet to awake the dead! "Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, And on your shores her Norsemen flung? "Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange Nor through the pines with whistling change, "O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in song enroll'd, For Albion's weal in battle bold;- "By all their swords, by all their scars, At the dread voice of other years *The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand. Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats. The Galgacus of Tacitus. "When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. FROM THE FRENCH. THE original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal. It was Dunois, the young and brave, But first he made his orison Before Saint Mary's shrine: "And grant, immortal queen of heaven," Was still the soldier's prayer, "That I may prove the bravest knight, And love the fairest fair." His oath of honour on the shrine He graved it with his sword, And follow'd to the Holy Land The banner of his lord; Where, faithful to his noble vow, His war-cry fill'd the air, "Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair." They owed the conquest to his arm, And then they bound the holy knot That were in chapel there, THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, |