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his hounds, he could not refrain from crying, "Gluck zu, Falkenburg!" (Good sport to ye, Falkenburg!) "Dost thou wish me good sport?" answered a hoarse voice; "thou shalt share the game;" and there was thrown at him what seemed to be a huge piece of foul carrion. The daring chasseur lost two of his best horses soon after, and never perfectly recovered the personal effects of this ghostly greeting. This tale, though told with some variation, is universally believed all over Germany.

The French had a similar tradition concerning an aërial hunter, who infested the forest of Fontainebleau. He was sometimes visible; when he appeared as a huntsman, surrounded with dogs, a tall grisly figure. Some account of him may be found in "Sully's Memoirs," who says he was called Le Grande Veneur. At one time he chose to hunt so near the palace, that the attendants, and, if I mistake not, Sully himself, came out into the court, supposing it was the sound of the king returning from the chase. This phantom is elsewhere called Saint Hubert.

The superstition seems to have been very general, as appears from the following fine poetical description of this phantom chase, as it was heard in the wilds of Ross-shire.

"Ere since, of old, the haughty thanes of Ross-
So to the simple swain tradition tells-
Were wont with clans, and ready vassals throng'd
To wake the bounding stag, or guilty wolf,
There oft is heard, at midnight, or at noon,
Beginning faint, but rising still more loud,
And nearer, voice of hunters, and of hounds,
And horns hoarse-winded, blowing far and keen:-
Forthwith the hubbub multiplies; the gale
Labours with wilder shrieks and rifer din
Of hot pursuit; the broken cry of deer
Mangled by throttling dogs; the shouts of men,
And hoofs thick beating on the hollow hill.
Sudden the grazing heifer in the vale
Starts at the noise, and both the herdsman's ears
Tingle with inward dread. Aghast he eyes
The mountain's height, and all the ridges round,
Yet not one trace of living wight discerns;
Nor knows, o'eraw'd, and trembling as he stands,
To what or whom he owes his idle fear,
To ghost, to witch, to fairy, or to fiend;
But wonders, and no end of wondering finds."

Scottish Descriptive Poems, pp. 167, 168.

A posthumous miracle of father Lesly, a Scottish Capuchin, related to his being buried on a hill haunted by these unearthly cries of hounds and huntsmen. After his sainted relics had been deposited there, the noise was never heard more. The reader will find this, and other miracles, recorded in the life of father Bonaventura, which is written in the choicest Italian.

THE Wildgrave winds his bugle horn,
To horse, to horse! halloo, halloo !
His fiery courser snuffs the morn,
And thronging serfs their lord pursue.

The eager pack, from couples freed,

Dash through the bush, the brier, the brake; While answering hound, and horn, and steed, The mountain echoes startling wake.

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"To-day the ill-omen'd chase forbear, Yon bell yet summons to the fane; To-day the warning spirit hear,

To-morrow thou mayst mourn in vain."

"Away, and sweep the glades along!" The sable hunter hoarse replies; "To muttering monks leave matin song, And bells, and books, and mysteries." The wildgrave spurr'd his ardent steed, And, lanching forward with a bound, "Who, for thy drowsy priest-like rede, Would leave the jovial horn and hound?

"Hence, if our manly sport offend!

With pious fools go chant and pray: Well hast thou spoke, my dark-brow'd frie Halloo, halloo! and, hark away!"

The wildgrave spurr'd his courser light,
O'er moss and moor, o'er holt and hill;
And on the left, and on the right,
Each stranger horseman follow'd still.

Up springs, from yonder tangled thorn,

A stag more white than mountain snow: And louder rung the wildgrave's horn, "Hark forward, forward! holla, ho!" A heedless wretch had cross'd the way; He gasps, the thundering hoofs below: But, live who can, or die who may, Still," Forward, forward!" on they go. See, where yon simple fences meet,

A field with autumn's blessings crown'd; See, prostrate at the wildgrave's feet, A husbandman, with toil embrown'd:

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But man and horse, and horn and hound,
Fast rattling on his traces go;
The sacred chapel rung around
With," Hark away! and, holla, ho!"

All mild, amid the route profane,

The holy hermit pour'd his prayer; "Forbear with blood God's house to stain; Revere his altar, and forbear!

"The meanest brute has rights to plead, Which wrong'd by cruelty or pride, Draw vengeance on the ruthless head:

Be warn'd at length, and turn aside."

Still the fair horseman anxious pleads;

The black, wild whooping, points the prey: Alas! the earl no warning heeds,

But frantic keeps the forward way.

"Holy or not, or right or wrong,

Thy altar, and its rites, I spurn; Not sainted martyr's sacred song,

Not God himself, shall make me turn!"

He spurs his horse, he winds his horn, "Hark forward, forward, holla, ho!" But off, on wirlwind's pinions borne,

The stag, the hut, the hermit, go.

And horse, and man, and horn, and hound,
And clamour of the chase was gone;
For hoofs, and howls, and bugle sound,
A deadly silence reign'd alone.

Wild gazed th' affrighted earl around;
He strove in vain to wake his horn;
In vain to call; for not a sound
Could from his anxious lips be borne.
He listens for his trusty hounds;
No distant baying reach'd his ears:
His courser, rooted to the ground,
The quickening spur unmindful bears.
Still dark and darker frown the shades,
Dark as the darkness of the grave;
And not a sound the still invades,
Save what a distant torrent gave.

High o'er the sinner's humbled head

At length the solemn silence broke; And from a cloud of swarthy red,

The awful voice of thunder spoke.

"Oppressor of creation fair!

Apostate spirits' harden'd tool! Scorner of God! Scourge of the poor!

The measure of thy cup is full.

"Be chased forever through the wood; Forever roam th' affrighted wild; And let thy fate instruct the proud,

God's meanest creature is his child."

"Twas hush'd: one flash, of sombre glare, With yellow ting'd the forest brown; Up rose the wildgrave's bristling hair, And horror chill'd each nerve and bone.

Cold pour'd the sweat in freezing rill;

A rising wind began to sing; And louder, louder, louder still,

Brought storm and tempest on its wing. Earth heard the call! Her entrails rend; From yawning rifts, with many a yell, Mix'd with sulphureous flames, ascend The misbegotten dogs of hell.

What ghastly huntsman next arose,
Well may I guess, but dare not tell;
His eye like midnight lightning glows,
His steed the swarthy hue of hell.

The wildgrave flies o'er bush and thorn,
With many a shriek of helpless wo;
Behind him hound, and horse, and horn,
And, "Hark away, and holla, ho!"

With wild despair's reverted eye,

Close, close behind, he marks the throng, With bloody fangs, and eager cry,

In frantic fear he scours along.

Still, still shall last the dreadful chase,
Till time itself shall have an end:
By day they scour earth's cavern'd space,
At midnight's witching hour ascend.

This is the horn, and hound, and horse,

That oft the lated peasant hears; Appall'd he signs the frequent cross, When the wild din invades his ears.

The wakeful priest oft drops a tear

For human pride, for human wo, When at his midnight mass, he hears Th' infernal cry of "Holla, ho!"


THESE Verses are a literal translation of an ancient Swiss ballad upon the battle of Sempach, fought 9th July, 1386, being the victory by which the Swiss cantons established their independence. The author is Albert Tehudi, denominated the Souter, from his profession of a shoemaker. He was a citizen of Lucerne, esteemed highly among his countrymen, both for his powers as a Meistersinger, or minstrel, and his courage as a soldier; so that he might share the praise conferred by Collins on Eschylus, that

-Not alone he nursed the poet's flame, But reach'd from Virtue's hand the patriot steel. The circumstance of their being written by a poet returning from a well-fought field he describes, and in which his country's fortune was secured, may confer on Tehudi's verses an interest which they are not entitled to claim from their poetical merit. But ballad poetry, the more literally it is translated, the more it loses its simplicity, without acquiring either grace or strength; and therefore some of the faults of the verses must be imputed to the translator's feeling it a duty to

keep as closely as possible to his original. The various puns, rude attempts at pleasantry, and disproportioned episodes, must be set down to Tehudi's account, or to the taste of his age.

The military antiquary will derive some amusement from the minute particulars which the martial poet has recorded. The mode in which the Austrian men-at-arms received the charge of the Swiss was by forming a phalanx, which they defended with their long lances. The gallant Winkelried, who sacrificed his own life by rushing among the spears, clasping in his arms as many as he could grasp, and thus opening a gap in these iron battalions, is celebrated in Swiss history. When fairly mingled together, the unwieldy length of their weapons, and cumbrous weight of their defensive armour, rendered the Austrian men-at-arms a very unequal match for the light-armed mountaineers. The victories obtained by the Swiss over the German chivalry, hitherto deemed as formidable on foot as on horseback, led to important changes in the art of war. The poet describes the Austrian knights and squires as cutting the peaks from their boots ere they could act upon foot, in allusion to an inconvenient piece of foppery, often mentioned in the middle ages. Leopold III., Archduke of Austria, called "The handsome man-atarms," was slain in the battle of Sempach, with the flower of his chivalry.

'TWAS when among our linden trees
The bees had housed in swarms,
(And gray-hair'd peasants say that these
Betoken foreign arms,)

Then look'd we down to Willisow,
The land was all in flame;
We knew the Archduke Leopold
With all his army came.

The Austrian nobles made their vow,
So hot their hearts and bold,
"On Switzer carles we'll trample now,
And slay both young and old."

With clarion loud, and banner proud,
From Zurich on the lake,
In martial pomp and fair array,

Their onward march they make.

"Now list ye, lowland nobles all

Ye seek the mountain strand, Nor wot ye what shall be your lot In such a dangerous land.

"I rede ye, shrive you of your sins Before you further go;

A skirmish in Helvetian hills

May send your souls to wo."

"But where now shall we find a priest,

Our shrift that he may hear?" "The Switzer priest has ta'en the field, He deals a penance drear.

*All the Swiss clergy who were able to bear arms fought in this patriotic war.

66 Right heavily upon your head

He'll lay his hand of steel; And with his trusty partizan

Your absolution deal."

'Twas on a Monday morning then,

The corn was steep'd in dew, And merry maids had sickels ta'en, When the host to Sempach drew.

The stalwart men of fair Lucerne

Together have they join'd;

The pith and core of manhood sternWas none cast looks behind.

It was the Lord of Hare castle,
And to the duke he said,
"Yon little band of brethren true
Will meet us undismay'd."

"O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare!" Fierce Oxenstern replied;

"Shalt see then how the game will fare,"

The taunting knight replied.

There was lacing then of helmets bright, And closing ranks amain;

The peaks they hew'd from their boot-points Might well nigh load a wain.t

And thus they to each other said, "Yon handful down to hew Will be no boastful tale to tell, The peasants are so few."

The gallant Swiss confederates there,
They pray'd to God aloud,
And he display'd his rainbow fair
Against a swarthy cloud.

Then heart and pulse throbb'd more and more

With courage firm and high,

And down the good confederates bore

On the Austrian chivalry.

The Austrian lion+ 'gan to growl,

And toss his main and tail;

And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt Went whistling forth like hail.

Lance, pike, and halberd, mingled there,
The game was nothing sweet;
The boughs of many a stately tree
Lay shiver'd at their feet.

The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast,
So close their spears they laid:
It chafed the gallant Winkelried,
Who to his comrades said-

In the original, Haasenstein, or Hare-stone. This seems to allude to the preposterous fashion, during the middle ages, of wearing boots with the points or peaks turned upwards, and so long that, in some cases, they were fastened to the knees of the wearer with small chains. When they alighted to fight upon foot, it would seem that the Austrian gentlemen found it necessary to cut off these peaks, that they might move with the necessary activity.

A pun on the archduke's name, Leopold.

"I have a virtuous wife at home,

A wife and infant son;

I leave them to my country's care-
This field shall soon be won.

"These nobles lay their spears right thick, And keep full firm array,

Yet shall my charge their order break,
And make my brethren way."

He rush'd against the Austrian band,
In desperate career,

And with his body, breast, and hand,
Bore down each hostile spear.

Four lances splinter'd on his crest, Six shiver'd in his side;

Still on the serried files he press’d—
He broke their ranks, and died.

This patriot's self-devoted deed
First tamed the lion's mood,
And the four forest cantons freed
From thraldom by his blood.

Right where his charge had made a lane,
His valiant comrades burst,
With sword, and axe, and partizan,

And hack, and stab, and thrust.

The daunted lion 'gan to whine,

And granted ground amain; The mountain bull, he bent his brows, And gored his sides again.

Then lost was banner, spear, and shield,

At Sempach, in the flight;

The cloister vaults at Koningsfield
Hold many an Austrian knight.

It was the Archduke Leopold,

So lordly would he ride,

But he came against the Switzer churls, And they slew him in his pride.

The heifer said unto the bull,

"And shall I not complain? There came a foreign nobleman To milk me on the plain.

"One thrust of thine outrageous horn
Has gall'd the knight so sore,
That to the churchyard he is borne,
To range our glens no more."-

An Austrian noble left the stour,
And fast the flight 'gan take;
And he arrived in luckless hour
At Sempach, on the lake.

He and his squire a fisher call'd,
(His name was Hans Von Rot,)
"For love, or meed, or charity,
Receive us in thy boat."

Their anxious call the fisher heard, And glad the meed to win,

* A pun on the Urus, or wild bull, which gives name to the canton of Uri.

His shallop to the shore he steer'd,
And took the fliers in.

And while against the tide and wind
Hans stoutly row'd his way,
The noble to his follower sign'd

He should the boatman slay.

The fisher's back was to them turn'd, The squire his dagger drew,

Hans saw his shadow in the lake,

The boat he overthrew.

He whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, He stunn'd them with his oar;

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

"Two gilded fishes in the lake

This morning have I caught, Their silver scales may much avail, Their carrion flesh is naught."

It was a messenger of wo

Has sought the Austrian land; "Ah! gracious lady, evil news! My lord lies on the strand.

"At Sempach, on the battle field,

His bloody corpse lies there." "Ah, gracious God !" the lady cried,

What tidings of despair!"

Now would you know the minstrel wight,
Who sings of strife so stern,
Albert the Souter is he hight,
A burgher of Lucerne.

A merry man was he, I wot,
The night he made the lay,
Returning from the bloody spot
Where God had judged the day.


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

All as a fair maiden bewilder'd in sorrow,
Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the


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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.


THE following war-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 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 Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was

"O saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bend-nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which


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;

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! the 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!

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