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From high Dunedin's towers we come,

A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround; With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd, We boast the red and blue.*

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

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

O! had they mark'd th' avenging call+ 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 tri-colour,

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!



Air-Thain' a Grigalach.*

THESE verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively gathering-tune, used by the Mac-Gregors. The severe treatment of this clan, their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded to in the ballad.

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
Mac-Gregor 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.

*The royal colours.

+ 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, encou raged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and 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.


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

* "The Mac-Gregor is come." +"We return no more."

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 Dhonuil, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil;

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 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.

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The frequent clang of courser's hoof,

Where held the cloak'd patrol their course,

And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear

Patrol nor sentinel may hear;
And sights before his eyes aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,

When down the destined plain
"Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance,
And doom'd the future slain.-

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,
As choosers of the slain, adored

The yet unchristen'd Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,

They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand,
With gesture wild and dread;

The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form
The lightnings flash more red;

And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead.


Wheel the wild dance, While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave

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,
While lightnings glance,

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
On trembling wing-each startled sprite
Our choir of death shall know.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,

And call the brave

To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours-

See, the east grows wan-
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.

At morn, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision'd sights he saw,

The legend heard him say:
But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen'd his ear, and stark his limb,

Ere closed that bloody day.

He sleeps far from his highland heath-.
But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale

On piquet-post, when ebbs the night,
And waning watch-fires grow less bright,
And dawn is glimmering pale.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to roam,

Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me

Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild, speaking

The language alternate of rapture and wo: O! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking,

The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came


Or pale disappointment, to darken my way,


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.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was

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

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain heather,

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in

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


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?

What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- How many long days and long weeks didst thou


Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! But when friends drop around us in life's weary



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 remain


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,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ;
As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild

To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers.
Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no


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,
And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches
are gleaming;

In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beam-

Far adown the lone 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:

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,


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


Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,

Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame!

Enough, now thy story in annals of glory,

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Spain;

With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou

In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

leave me,

I never will part with my Willie again.


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,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean

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,
Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar,
And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.

And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween


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.


WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay !
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.



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:

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