Heath flowers :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sweet is the wild romantic stream,
That winds by Duchray's ruined tower,
When Summer's bright and dazzling beam
Gleams on it in meridian power:
Lone Traveller! mark, from hazel bower,
Yon river swelling on the view,
And linger there for many an hour,
For that's the winding Avon-Dhu.

If thou wouldst view it in its pride,
Roaring o'er rock or hollow den,
Then go, when storms are howling wide,
To Craigmoohk's lightning-shattered glen:
Its cataract is awful then!
Rushing the narrow passage through,
While echo swells, in wildest strain,
The storm-voice of the Avon-Dhu.

But, Traveller! when the voice of Spring
Awakes the Cuckoo's welcome note;
When early birds essay to sing
On budding tree or woodland grot;
When morning balms are all afloat,
On dark gray strath or mountain blue;
Let pining sorrow be forgot,
And stray by winding Avon-Dhu.

With Nature's God thou'lt wander then,—
Thou'lt see Him in the budding trees,
Thou'lt view Him in the flowery glen,
And hear Him in the mountain breeze:
The noble prospect round will please,
(An Highland landscape finely true)
And, Traveller! if thy heart's at ease,
Thou'lt bless the lovely Avon-Dhu.

JEANIE GRAHAM.

Oh! aft I've heard the mavis' note,
Mingled wi' distant waterfa';
Whan gloamin's breeze brought them afloat,
Murmurin' owre Duchray's ruined wa',
When Herons, high in mid-air, prest
To wild Loch-Con, their lonely hame;
Whan darker frowned the mountain's breast,
I wont to meet my Jeanie Graham.

In Duchray's garden bloomed the rose,
Tho' withered and neglected now,
Its breast was white as the pure snows
That's piled up on Benlomond's brow;
Tho' it was fair, a bonnier flower
Bloomed in the wild, unknown to fame,
She might have graced a kingly bower—
The rose o' Duchray, Jeanie Graham.

Nae sorrow then disturbed my breast,
The joy of love my soul obeyed,
And I was blest, supremely blest,
And happy with my Highland Maid.

But pleasure is na' lasting here;
Woe marked me with unerring aim,
An' soon I wailed, wi' mony a tear,
The rose o' Duchray, Jeanie Graham.

Thy Isle, Monteith, received the Maid,
Thy waters round her dwelling flow;
An' aften, whan the evening shade
Steals owre the calm loch, lingering slow,
I wet the grave wi' sorrow's dew,
(My latest tear she well may claim)
For ne'er was Maid sae leal and true,
As Duchray's rose-bud, Jeanie Graham.

MARY.

“The night is mirk, the night is dark,
An' dreary is the moss;
I'll never see the ford's white mark,
Whare I the burn maun cross;
I'll mak my bed upon the heath,
An' in this wild moor tarry;
But cauld an' bitin' is the breath
O' the heavens upon Mary.

“An angry father's voice indeed,
Still tingles in mine ears;—
Tho' I've outstript the Falcon's speed,
I can't outstrip my fears:
I'll calm my fears on Willy's breast,
True love to him I carry;
An' whan I'm nestled there at rest,
Nane will be blest as Mary.”

She laid her on the withered fern,
While snawy drift flew past;
An' Death's white wreath (a dazzling cairn)
Was piled up by the blast:
Nae helping arm was nigh to save,
The muir was wild and dreary;—
Nae mortal haun' made the lone grave,
A snaw-wreath closed on Mary.

SONG.

[Sweetly glints the evening beam]

Sweetly glints the evening beam,
Tinging Duchray's silent stream;
And the lanely yellow ray,
Dwalls upon the Castle gray,
While I muse on thee,
My Love,
Sadly muse on thee.

Never mair will morning's smile
Wauken me in Aberfoyle;
Never mair the sunny rays
Light me up the heathy braes,
Listning to thy sang,
My Love,
Thy soul-soothing sang.

Lomond's tap will hoary be—
Ne'er will age shed snaws on me;
Duchray's waters may rin by,—
Life in me will sune be dry;
Time will ne'er return,
My Love;
Time will ne'er return.

Whan I'm far on fortune thrown,
Burnin' in the torrid zone,
Distant mony a weary mile,—
I'll think on thee and Aberfoyle,
Wi' mony, mony a tear,
My Love;
Mony, mony a tear.

I canna', darena' to thee steal,
To bid thee sic a lang fareweel,
Life wad my pale lips forsake,—
My puir widowed heart wad break,
Takin' leave o' thee,
My Love,
Takin' leave o' thee.

ADDRESS TO A SLIP OF HEATHER.

A long, long adieu to thee, sweet Aberfoyle!
I exclaimed, as I trode on the lovely green sward,
And I stooped down to pluck, with a sorrowful smile,
A sprig of brown heath from the banks of Loch-Ard,
I shook off the dew from the beautiful blossom,
But the bright drop was soon, soon replaced by a tear,
I set it with care on my wild heaving bosom,
For the sweet highland symbol was lovely and dear.

For far frae aul' Scotland I'm doomed now to roam,
From the scenes of my youth to a far distant land,
And thou wilt, sweet heath-bud, remind me of home,
While remembrance with thee will the broader expand,
When the visions of death before mine eyes gather,
May “the sunset of life” appear without cloud,
And tho' dried and withered, thou Scion of heather,
Like an order of knighthood thou'lt deck my white shroud.

THE HIGHLAND MAID.

Whan summer's sun, wi' lovely smile,
Adorned the bents o' Aberfoyle,
An' the moss rose began to blaw
On Castle Duchray's ruined wa'—
'Twas then, on Daliel's lovely glade,
I met my bonny Highland Maid.

Let Nobles in the gorgeous ha',
Woo Ladies deckt in jewels braw;
But unto me alone be given,
The heath-couch, 'neath the summer heaven,
Close to a burn and hazel shade,
An' in my arms my Highland Maid.

Then, then let wealth tak' wings an' flee,
It ne'er shall draw ae sigh frae me;
Could I repine, or wish for more,
Blest wi' the lassie I adore,
In native innocence arrayed,
My bonny blooming Highland Maid.

O ne'er will “I that day forget,”
When on fair Duchray's banks we met,
When lone Daliel's romantic groves,
Heard the warm whisper of our loves,
While the unconscious sigh betrayed,
The love-throes of my Highland Maid.

Shackled wi' poortith's iron bands,
I soon may visit distant lands;
But, even in the arms o' death,
I'll muse upon the Land o' Heath;
An' far frae love's woe-soothing aid,
I'll weep for my sweet Highland Maid.

I'LL NEVER SEE GLENORCHY MORE.

The moon looked o'er a broken cloud,
And beamed upon a scene of woe;
Pale, pale she viewed a warlike crowd,
At St. Sebastian far below;
And oft was heard a plaintive moan,
When paused the thundering cannon roar;
The feeble voice sighed, “all is gone!
I'll never see Glenorchy more!”

“Far from my home I lay my head,
While death's cold dew sits on my brow;
Let warriors boast of glory's bed,—
Say, what to me is Glory now?
O! could I, as in youth time, roam,
And all my native haunts explore;
How sweet to me would be my home—
But I'll ne'er see Glenorchy more!”

Loud, and more loud, the cannons roared,
Their lightnings scathed Sebastian towers,
The war-storm all its fury poured,
While Britain showed her matchless powers:
But, hark! these farewel words of woe—
The bitterness of death is o'er,—
I knew the voice—it whispered low,
“I'll never see Glenorchy more.”

THE HIGHLAND SOLDIER.

Whare is the chiel frae the land o' the heather,
Wha e'er turned his back on his frien' or his fae?
He embraces the ane, an' he o'ercomes the ither,
An' the dictates o' honour he'll ever obey:
He caresna' for restin', however sae weary,
He caresna' for shelter, tho' dreepin' an' cauld;
But his task being done, tho' the night's mirk and dreary,
He sleeps on a snaw-wreath in tartan plaid faul'd.

An' place him afore the disturbers of Britain,
How nobly he steps on the broad tented field!
His faes are afore him, their hour is but fleeting;
A Highlander conquers, but never will yield:
The glance o' his bright een are piercin' and killing,
His figure is soldier-like, manly, an' large;
An' whare is the fae, however sae willing,
Can staun' the firm shock o' a grand Highland charge?

THE BATTLE OF BARROSSA.

[_]

Air—Kate o' Gowrie.

Haste! swell the signal clang o' war,
The hum o' foemen's heard afar,
And, see! quick fades the morning star,
As the sun lights up Barrossa.
O! mony a ane, but yester even,
Saw the pale moon rise sweet in heaven—
That sight again will ne'er be given,
To them on lone Barrossa.

Our Hero girt his braid Claymore,
A gallant look the Chieftain wore,
And stately he rode on before
His Heroes, to Barrossa.
Nigh, and more nigh, the battle lours,
All silence till the signal roars;
'Tis done! the thunderin' war-cloud pours
Its fury on Barrossa.

Shame! shame upon the ranks o' Spain,
Say, shall Scots blude be shed in vain?
Shame! motionless they a' remain
Far frae thy field, Barrossa;
Stand whare ye are, the Scots won't fly,
Weell they can sword and musket ply,
They're now surrounded! “Do or die,”
Was shouted on Barrossa.

Our Chieftain knew our Highland stuff,
An' cried, amid war's noises rough,
“Spare powder, give them steel enough,
My lads,” upon Barrossa.
Like mountain-stream down hill we swept,
While pibrochs wildest measure kept,—
Awa' they fled o' glory stript,
Thy day was ours, Barrossa!

General Graham's (now Lord Lyndoch) words previous to the charge.

FLORA's LAMENT.

[_]

Air—The yellow-hair'd Laddie.

How lovely is it, in the hazel wood shaw,
In gloamin's saft hour whan the sun is awa',
To hear the blythe mavis frae the milk-white hawtree,
While the notes are re-echoed far, far on the lea?

My Donald an' I hae aft, aft list'ned there,
'Till the rich mellow warblin's were meltin' in air,
O! mavis, thou bring'st the sad tear to mine ee,
For never sae lorn did I listen to thee.

Yet still warble on, tho' thy strains bid me mourn,
They tell me that Donald will maybe return;
And whan he returns, as the gloamin' shades fa',
We'll listen your love-notes in yon hazel shaw.

THE LILY OF STRATHMORE.

[_]

Air—The Highland Plaid.

Thro' dreary scenes I'm doomed to roam,
Far from mine own romantic home;
Will I e'er step again that dell,
And list the voice I love so well?
Will I e'er see my native shore,
Where blooms the Lily of Strathmore?

Would I could pluck thee, matchless gem!
To place thee in a diadem;
My throne would be a throne of joy,
I'd save, but I could ne'er destroy;
For Love would always stand before
My Queen, the Lily of Strathmore.

But happier far would be my lot,
If Mary graced my humble cot;
O! then I'd tend my lovely flower,
With rapture to my dying hour;
And till my heart's last beat was o'er,
I'd bless the Lily of Strathmore.

THE CLAYMORE SONG.

[_]

Air—Oran an Ouig.

My Claymore, come forth from thy sleep in the sheath,
With pride I'll to-morrow thee wield;
O! ne'er quit my firm grasp, 'till, nerveless in death,
I am stretched on the glorious field;
Remember that thou art a Highlander's friend,
With my fathers thou'st conquered of yore;
Bear me thro' the fight, and my knees I will bend
To bless thee, my trusty Claymore.

My Companion! to-morrow thou'lt grace Waterloo,
Where the peace of the world is at stake;
Ne'er depart from my hand, aye be loyal and true,
O! be faithful for auld Scotland's sake;
Be opposed to the mighty, let cowards still go,
Blush red when a traitor's before;
But if thou shouldst e'er meet a poor wounded foe,
Recollect thou'rt a Scottish Claymore.

Return to thy scabbard, I'll rouse up thy powers,
When the sun-beams awaken the morn;
And if I survive, and the victory ours,
To my home thou wilt proudly be borne:
As a noble memorial thou'lt then have thy due,
And my children, while eying thee o'er,
To the stranger will tell, that on famed Waterloo
Thou wert their old father's Claymore.

SONG.

[O! blest day, when war will cease]

[_]

Air—Lewie Gordon.

O! blest day, when war will cease,
While love strays with gentle peace;
And the warrior sees, once more,
His fond Maid and native shore.

Chorus.

Heavens! O shield my Highland Youth,
Guard him till the battle's o'er;
Mary then his toils will soothe,
And Donald will not leave her more.

In the doubtful strife of arms,
Shield my soul from wild alarms;
Let my thoughts of Donald be,
That he lives, and lives for me.

Heavens! O shield, &c.

When he comes, be thou my breast,
The fond pillow of his rest;
Nestle him when war is o'er,
'Mong the braes of sweet Strathmore.

Heavens! O shield, &c.

SONG.

[Why in secret dost thou languish?]

[_]

Air—Crazy Jane.

Why in secret dost thou languish?
Why in secret heave the sigh?
Often have I marked thy anguish,
Often seen thy watery eye;
Perjured love will never wound thee,
Tho' in softest wiles arrayed,
Guardian angels, who surround thee,
Will protect their Highland Maid.

Mark the birds on yonder blossom,
Warbling tales of love with glee;
See upon the heath-bell's bosom,
Fondly dwells the mountain-bee;
Watching spirits view their gladness,
In rude danger lend them aid:
Will they leave to woe and sadness,
Their proud boast, a Highland Maid?

Place the lily on thy bosom,
Throw away the mournful rue;—
Buds of love, in fairest blossom,
Soon will cheer thy happy view:
Fortune's smiles around will gather,
Love's sweet blink will never fade;
And who will be in land of Heather,
So happy as the Highland Maid?

THE HIGHLANDS.

My soul is on the highland hills wharever I may roam,
My soul's in Caledonia, it is my native home,
And I would never murmur, tho' tost upon the sea,
Except when I am sighing for mine ain countrie;
O! blessed be the mountain-taps whare springs the purple heath,
An' happy be the bonny Strath whare I first drew my breath;
For whan I'm seated in my cot, nae mair frae it to stray,
My friend and I will merry be owre quaighs o' usquabae.

Then welcome be the highland hills for ever unto me,
For happy, in my sheeling there, my friend and I will be,
When spring is budding in her youth, when summer's glories smile,
Or winter sends the howling storms owre the braes o' Aberfoyle;

I'll range the hills in summer's prime, in winter, in my cot,
Chearfu' and contented still I'll bless my happy lot,
An' whether summer suns blink sweet, or midnight lightnings play,
My friend and I will merry be, owre quaighs o' usquabae.

SONG.

[Whan the rose bush, in the morning]

Whan the rose bush, in the morning,
Bloomed beside my father's ha',
I loved to see the tints adorning
Its breast, when it began to blaw;
But howling storms, its beauties scorning,
Swept o'er't—nae mair its charms I saw,
The garden now is clad wi' mourning;—
Sae Donald bloomed—and passed awa'!

THE BRAES OF BALQUHITHER.

Sweet is the bower whare nae fierce sun-beams dazzle,
Down by the burnie o'erhung by the hazel;
For Mary an' I there hae aft met thegither,
O nane were sae blest on the braes of Balquhither.

The first kiss I gat was the sweetest o' ony,
An' lang did I dwall on her wee mou sae bonny;
I busk'd her pet Lamb wi' the flowers o' the heather,
An' she lov'd me for that on the braes of Balquhither.

Balquhither! my country, thou home of my childhood,
How happy was I when I rov'd thro' thy wildwood!
The gay Rose o' England may blossom or wither,
It ne'er can compare wi' the Heath of Balquhither.

The Indies is grand, and the Indies is gaudy,
But say, has it charms for a true highland laddie?
What are its plantations to me? I would rather
Hae my ain wee bit bower on the braes of Balquhither.

THE HIGHLAND SOLDIER's SONG.

Gie me the hills, the highland hills, whare stormy tempests blaw,
Gie me the lofty mountain-taps, tho' they are clad wi' snaw;
For there the hardy Highlander looks owre the lowly dale,
Rejoicing in the stormy blast, the music o' the gale.
There, frae the heathy mountains, where our forefathers bled,
And mony a haughty Roman gat his everlasting bed,
There came a dauntless gallant band, whom freedom ca's her ain,
Wha spread wide ruin thro' the ranks, that threatned humble Spain.

Led on by our ain noble chiefs, we broke the ranks o' France,
The lightning o' a highland e'e bade wild dismay advance,
Whare havoc mark'd the battle, there our stormy war-pipes rav'd,
And foremost in Vittoria's fight, the highland bonnet wav'd!

SONG.

[O! welcome ye breezes that blaw owre the mountains]

O! welcome ye breezes that blaw owre the mountains,
Your music is sweet 'mang the red heather bells;
And blest be your murmurs, ye clear highland fountains,
That gaily meander thro' Aberfoyle dells;
Ye rich lowland vallies awa', for ye never
Can bring true delight to a highlander's e'e,
Awa' wi' sic beauties for ever and ever,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.

Saft blink the sun-beams on England's gay vallies,
An' red are the grapes at the husbandman's door,
While proudly owre a' swells the rich stately palace,
Whare Wealth scatters freely her glitterin' store;
But what are the grapes to the sweet heather blossom?
And say, is a Prince as a Highlander free?
Is a palace as pure as a Highlander's bosom?
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.

And what is a Diadem, say, what is in it?
The wearer may be either foolish or trig;
I'd decline every crown for my raven-plum'd bonnet,
And spurn the rich robes for my dear Philabeg;
Nae streams are sae pure as the clear highland fountains,
The place of their murmurs is sweet unto me;
And dear as my soul are the Aberfoyle mountains,
'Se tir nam beann breachda bheiridh aitis do'm chri'.

In the mountainous Highlands, where my heart would rejoice.

SONG.

[Far from the scenes of my youth I may wander]

Far from the scenes of my youth I may wander,
Where winters are raging or gay summers smile;
But where, like the Forth, does a river meander,
Or where is a valley like sweet Aberfoyle?
With memory's eyes oft the sweet spot surveying,
I weep, for my heart's in the lonely green vale,
And there, with my lassie, I'd love to be straying—
Tha m'anam le Mairi, an tir nan Gaël.

But far, far away is the pride of my bosom,
And distance but fills my sad soul with alarms;
For tender indeed is my beautiful blossom,
And empty and lone is my sheltering arms,
O! if she were present, I'd shield her from danger,
Tho' tempests and thunders around would assail,
To my fond breast I'd clasp her, to wild fear a stranger—
Tha m'anam le Mairi, an tir nan Gaël.

Let the timerous roebuck delight in the mountains,
Let foxes rejoice in the rock-covered den,
Let the Osprey feel pleasure in skimming the fountains,
And Wood-Pigeons seek the deep shades of the glen;
Give me a wee sheeling, removed far from grandeur,
And there with my lassie true love would prevail,
I'd care not for riches, I'd care not for splendor,—
Tha m'anam le Mairi, an tir nan Gaël.

My soul is in the Highlands with Mary.

MARGARET M'FARLANE.

Margaret! thy name I'll swell on high,
An' twine it wi' the Heath-flowers gaudy;
I loe thee for thy bonny eye,—
Say, wilt thou tak a Highland Laddie?
Aft, at the foot o' Craigmore steep,
In summer's mild an' pleasant weather,
We twa hae tented flocks o' sheep,
And happy were we baith thegither.

But years hae come, an' years hae past,
Since first I saw thee on Trombuie;
Yet lang will the impression last,
An' a' the homage that is due thee.
The Heath-Cock, wakenin' in the morn,
Wi' diamond dew-draps on ilk feather,
Appears, when on his pinions borne,
The Moorland King, the God of Heather!

I've seen him 'mong the dark-brown heath,
An' on Craiguchty heard him crying;
Beheld him in the throes o' death,
An' viewed his eyes an' plumage dying;
I've marked him when the death-shot flew,
Whan faded life an' sight before him,
His jetty wing, the brightest hue,
The last eye-glance, a Cairngorum!

Margaret! thy ringlets clustering cling,
An' owre thy lovely temples gather,
They're blacker than the Heath-Cock's wing,
Whan May-dew bathes ilk glossy feather!
An' then thy ee, thy bonny ee,
Is like the Heath-Cock's, tremblin', deeing;
Whan, shot upon the moorlands, he
The sun's last brightest ray is seeing!

The lowland plain, the Saxon's pride,
Can never match our native mountains;
An', Margaret! can the dark-brown Clyde
Compare wi' limped highland fountains?
Then leave thae vales, whare fause joys smile,
Say, in our strath aince mair I'll view thee,
To rove thro' bonny Aberfoyle,
An youth's dear haunts on high Trombuie?

SONG.

[When again will I see the red heather-bell waving?]

When again will I see the red heather-bell waving?
When again on Led-Ard will I hear the sweet breeze?
When again will I list to the howling storm raving,
Amang the gay foliage of Aberfoyle trees?
The scenes of my youth-time again I'll see never,
Nor again will I wander by Forth's winding river,
And you, my fair Maiden, O! farewel for ever,
Mo ghrādh, lovely Jenny, for ever adieu!

Tho' far frae the summit o' sweet pleasure hurled,
To rude distant climes I a wanderer go—
A Highlander's breast is the same thro' the world,
And mine will remain as the new driven snow,
And oft for Led-Ard my breast will be sighing,
Remembrance will soothe me when laid 'mong the dying,
And while speech is left, I will utter it crying,
Mo ghrādh, lovely Jenny, for ever adieu!

THE PROUD TRICOLOR.

The proud Tricolor o'er the broad field is waving,
The Eagles are marshalled in dazzling array;
At times thro' the armies the clarions are raving,
And fame stands on tiptoe for Waterloo day:
The armourers clang breaks the stillness of even,
While the outpost's alarms are at intervals given,
And the stars all unveiled in the blue arch of heaven,
Seem to twinkle with pity on wide Waterloo.

The breast of the Hero with glory is swelling,
And my bosom heaves for the Maid I adore;
Sweet hope! let my soul for a time be thy dwelling,
And say I'll revisit the haunts of Strathmore;
Now welcome the battle, the Hero's high pleasure,
O! strong be the Claymore, the Highlander's treasure,
Let pibrochs, in true Caledonian measure,
Sound nobly to-morrow on wide Waterloo.

THE BRAES OF ABERFOYLE.

O! happy be yon bonny vale, sae gladsome to the e'e,
But a' its sweets, and tender joys, hae lang since fled frae me!
The baumy breath o' spring is nought, in vain is summer's smile,
Since my dear Donald left his love, and the braes o' Aberfoyle.

O! merry are the wee bit birds in yonder hazel shaw,
They warble sweet and cheerily, their mates are no awa';
The swallow, twittering frae the rock in rapid flight the while,
Skims the calm bosom o' the Loch 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.

High on this lofty mountain I view the heather bell,
And see the little busy bee wi' rapture on it dwell;
O happy bee! when ye're releast frae burnin' summer's toil,
Ye'll pass the winter nights wi' joy 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.

The flowers are springing on the bank, the daisies on the lea,
Its fragrance on the mountain-tap the heath-bell scatters free;
But, to the lanely lover, in vain's the floweret's spoil,
An' dreary are the bonny straths 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.

Blaw upon Donald's ship ye win's, blaw wi' a steady gale,
An' wi' a swift an' favouring breeze, O! swell out every sail,
The very thought “he'll sune be here,” should my lorn thoughts beguile,
O! when he comes, I will be blest 'mang the braes o' Aberfoyle.

SONG.

[Go, Donald, to the tented field]

Go, Donald, to the tented field,
Where heroes step the plain;
And while you Honour's faulchion wield,
My prayers will not be vain;
He, who protects a sinking land,
Seldom lets freedom yield;
In battle He'll be your right hand,
Your buckler in the field.

And when wild war hath sunk to rest,
And mad ambition low,
The tears of many a nation blest,
Will grateful for you flow;
The witching smiles of loveliness
Will be your meed and due;
And Beauty, in her bowers of bliss,
Will always welcome you.

WATERLOO.

Britannia, with undaunted brow,
Bids wild war rage no more;
And Bourbon's flag is floating now,
Where waved the Tri-color!
Glory to Erin's gallant Son,
And our brave Warriors too,
Who dauntless fought, and nobly won,
The field of Waterloo.

Far, on the well fought fields of Spain,
My Henry long I mourned;
He went at length to Belgium's plain,
He fought, but ne'er returned;
Yet tho' my lover's lowly laid,
This still will cheer my view—
He, honoured, lies on glory's bed,
In the field of Waterloo.

O! many a wife's a widow now,
An orphan many a child,
And many a maiden's tears will flow
For happiness exiled;
Each maid of France (a drooping bud,)
Will long the conflict rue;
For, O! it was a day of blood,
The day of Waterloo.

But why need I o'er misery brood,
Or at my sad fate frown?
His arm hath helped to raise the good,
And pull a tyrant down:
Britannia welcomes peaceful years,
Bids war a long adieu;
But Jessy's smiles are dashed with tears,
She weeps for Waterloo.

TO The Memory OF BURNS.

That day, O Albyn! set in woe,
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead;
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.

Who now can his high task perform,
And warble where his Genius smiled?
Sweep on the whirlwind and the storm,
Or blythly sing when all is mild?
Sweet minstrel of the lonely wild!
Thy early fate demands a tear;
For, far from hope, from peace exiled,
Thy stay was short and troubled here.

The fairy haunts of winding Doone
Will raise his wild notes full and strong,
Ayr's woody banks will swell the tune,
And Lugar the rich sound prolong:
The melody will roll along,
Mid Catrine groves, so lovely fair;
Mosgiel will bless his sweetest song,
For, O! he mourned the “Daizy” there.

And Carrick, Cunningham, and Kyle,
Ye lovely gardens of the north!
He bade your heavenly beauties smile,
And called your richest graces forth,
Showed to the world your native worth,
And, ere he bade a last farewel,
He blest the loveliest spot on earth,
And flung o'er you his magic spell.

Beats then a heart of Albyn here,
That doth not mourn the Minstrel's doom?
Is there an eye where dwells no tear,
A breast wherein no sigh hath room,
When looking thro' the dreary gloom,
That overhung our Poet's day?—
No! memory rests upon his tomb,
And, mournful, bows to sorrow's sway.

That day, O Albyn! set in woe,
When thy sweet Minstrel's spirit fled,
When towering Genius was laid low,
And numbered with the lonely dead:
Strew, lovely Albyn! o'er his head
The “Daizy,” when the spring returns;
For never, never was there laid
In earth, so sweet a bard as Burns.

THE MAID OF ORANSAY.

Let high Benledi rear its tap,
Crowned wi' a diadem o' snaw,
Or at its feet let hazels drap
Their diamonds on the leafy shaw;
Let storms owre wild Benlomond blaw,
An' chill the lambs on glen an' brae;—
The breeze plays sweetly far awa,
Amang the heaths of Oransay.

When tempests lash the foamin' waves,
An' a' aroun' is wild an' drear,
An' the wee Petterel, trembling, braves
The howling blast when death is near:
A stranger will I be to fear,
Tho' Corryvrechkins round me play;
I'll drap the last, the loneliest tear,
For the sweet Maid of Oransay.

O! Oransay's a lovely Isle,
It is a paradise to me;
For there the wildest beauties smile,
To warm the soul or glad the e'e:
Pure is the rapture yet to be,
When Mary gilds my darkened day,
An' mony a cheerfu' sun we'll see
Glint owre the bents of Oransay.

The ocean-wave may heave its force,
And havoc mingle with the tide,
The roaring storm may wing its course,
And shake my Isle wi' noisy pride:
But whan I'm nestled by the side
Of her whom all my thoughts obey,
Reckless of storms, I'll clasp my bride,
The lovely Maid of Oransay.

OSSIAN's GRAVE.

Yonder's the lonely Isle
Where the Bard of Cona lies;
See! the sun-beams sweetly smile,
Where the three gray stones arise,
From where the purple heather blossoms wave,
The streams that kiss the mound,
Give a soft, a murmuring sound,
And the spring-breeze sighs around
Ossian's grave.

Now the Eagle's ceased his call,
All around is calm and still,
Save yon distant waterfal
That dashes down the hill;
The shades of evening now begin to close:
But Glencoe's sweet at night,
Where the Heath-Cock veils his sight,
And, wearied with his flight,
Seeks repose.

The yellow moon-beams play
Far on the distant hill;
On the Isle's one lovely ray,
Where all around's so still,
I hear the thistle on the green mound wave,
O! sweet is it to rove,
Thro' flowery dale or grove,
But, above them all, I love
Ossian's grave.

THE LADY ISLE.

How sweetly wild's yon Isle at night,
When the pale moon streams forth her light,
When autumn sheds her dews of balm,
And all around is still and calm?
The sea's then like a golden bed,
Whereon some child of summer's laid,
So darkly brown appears the while,
The lone, romantic, Lady Isle.

What tho' on it is never seen
The charming sward of emerald green,—
What tho' on it appears no flower,
No fairy shade, no rosy bower,
No sweet cascade, no murmuring stream,
Nor couches meet for lover's dream;
Yet there the child of song might smile,
And bless the lonely Lady Isle.

When Winter rears his awful form,
And sends abroad the howling storm,
And the lone Isle appears to be
Some bark amid a roaring sea;
When nought is to be seen afar
But one wide elemental war;
'Tis grand, as lightning gleams the while,
To view the lonely Lady Isle.

THE FAREWELL.

We now must part, the stranger's boat draws nigh,
My face can scarcely brighten with a smile;
Yonder's the Ship, I murmur with a sigh,
That is to waft me to my highland Isle:
We'll soon be separated by many a mile,
And sad, indeed, will be my fleeting day;
O! oft I'll steal from bustling noise awhile,
To muse on Anna, who'll be far away.

O! couldst thou hover on a bright moon-beam,
And shine into the chamber of my rest!
Awaken gladness in my midnight dream,
And fill with rapture my poor tortured breast;
I then, indeed, would be supremely blest,
Thy image would my daily thoughts employ,
With sweet content my pillow should be prest,
For then my night would be a night of joy.

Fearful forebodings fill my sickning soul,
That this farewel shall be indeed the last;
Wild throbs my heart, the burning tear-drops roll,
And every cheerful thought is overcast:
The storm is lowring, keen misfortune's blast,
I know, will soon, soon lay me in the tomb;
I'll muse on thee, and memory of the past
Will fling a sun-beam thro' the lonely gloom.

Then fare ye well, may ever-blooming flowers
Spring up to cheer thee in thy solitude;
May friendship gladden, pleasure gild thy hours;
For sad and cheerless is lone widowhood;
My warmest prayer shall still be for thy good,
My fondest thoughts shall ever dwell on thee,
And to thy breast, if former scenes obtrude,
O let, at times, a sigh be heaved for me.

ODE, RECITED AT THE OSSIAN CLUB, BEING THE ANNIVERSARY OF The Battle of Bannockburn.

Ye friendly band assembled here,
To celebrate this glorious day,
O listen, with a partial ear,
Unto a simple roundelay:
While o'er the chords my fingers stray,
Bid me awhile the sound prolong,
Smile at the simple notes, and say,
“Thou'st caught the melody of song.”

For nothing, to a lowly bard,
Is half so sweet as friendship's praise;
That is his high, his great reward,
And wakens up his brightest lays:
Then hush, while I attempt to raise
The theme whereon ye love to dwell;
And while the harp my hand obeys,
O! say the notes are passing well.

The voice of Cona now is still,
But his song fills mine eyes with tears,
As wandering up the heathy hill,
I muse on days of other years:
For nought to me so sweet appears,
As straying from the haunts of men;
And while his song my bosom cheers,
I live my youth-time o'er again.

Peace to the bard who silent sleeps
In lonely Glencoe's mountain soil,
Where “Caledonia's Genius weeps,”
And sobs out Ossian's name the while:
Who would not their whole days beguile,
And muse the narrow dwelling o'er?
For there 'tis sweet midst summer's smile,
And wildly grand in winter's roar.

But swell a higher, prouder lay,
Ere yet the fire of song hath fled;
This is the great, the glorious day,
On which the foes of Scotland bled:
Such devastation round was spread,
That Victory's self began to mourn,
When Caledonia raised her head,
And England drooped at Bannockburn!

The thistle's green on Stirling rock,
And brown's the heath-bell far below;
Gay is the field that felt the shock,
When haughty England was laid low;
O Forth! may thy links sweetly flow,
While Stirling's daughters by thee stray,
Like beauteous rose-buds may they blow,
And none to dash the flowers away.

Peace to the souls, then, of the brave,
To those who have our fond regards;
Light be the sod upon each grave,
And lightly tread we o'er the swards;
A tear is all love now awards;
Hush! then, ere we to mirth return—
Pledge ye to Ossian, Prince of bards,
And Robert Bruce of Bannockburn.

THE ADIEU.

My fond heart, be still, tho' thy mate was untrue,
Throb not when thou bidst an eternal adieu;
For the heart linked to thee hath broken the chain,
And is not worth a throb, save the throb of disdain.

Yet Jane, as the fond recollections flit by,
A tear-drop, unbidden, will swell in mine eye;
For I still thought thee mine, till that sorrowful day
When the son of the stranger enticed thee away.

May thy heart from the sad pangs of sorrow be free,
May it dance wild with joy, tho' it throbs not for me;
It beats for that youth, whom, with soul-melting glow,
Thou nightly enclaspst to thy bosom of snow.

May thy joy-thrilling thoughts on me never rove,
To sadden the dying delirium of love;
And when thy white arm round his neck may entwine,
O! ne'er for a moment believe it is mine.

If my image before thee in night visions swims,
O! name me not, Jane, as ye start from thy dreams;
For should thy mate hear thee, he'd turn from thy kiss,
And he'd leap from thy arms in the moment of bliss.

For years I have loved thee, I tell it thee now,
Unheeding the frown on thy husband's dark brow;
But that love hath fled—thou, Jane, art untrue,
And I sigh, as I bid an eternal adieu.

TO THE EVENING STAR.

O! thou mild Star, of ray serene,
With joy thy cloudless face I see;
For lovely is the nightly scene
When cheered by thee.

I've seen thee where the Indian roves,
When played the cooling evening breeze,
And marked thee twinkling thro' the groves
Of Orange trees.

And far, where Afric's rocks are piled,
I've seen thy trembling beauties play;
And on America's old mountains wild,
I've marked thy ray.

And where Gibraltar rears its crest,
(That monument of British fame);
I've seen thee on its summit rest,
A sparkling gem!

And rolling on the Atlantic sea,
I've hummed to thee a Scottish song,
As with the trade-winds, merrily,
We sailed along.

When roaring whirlwinds swept the deep,
Unveiling death in various forms,
And thou, behind a cloudy heap,
Lay wrapt in storms,

O! when again ye burst the gloom,
With joy I hailed thy lustre bright,
A Saviour from a watery tomb!
A beacon light!

And as I now upon thee gaze,
I feel mine eyes suffused with tears;
For thou recall'st the loves of days
“Of other years.”

Mary! my day draws nigh its even,
No joy my settled grief removes;
Wilt thou forget, in bowers of heaven,
Our happy loves?

Ah! no, tho' wrapt in scenes of bliss,
Thou'lt still reserve a sigh for me,
And wish thy Love in paradise,
To rove with thee.

And Mary, “dear remembered maid,”
To be with thee is all I crave;
O! soon may I be lowly laid
In the cold grave.

Oft will I steal from bustling noise,
And drop to thee, sweet Star, the tear;
For thou recall'st my former joys,
With Mary here.

INCHRAY's BONNY JENNY.

There stauns a bonny green-sward knowe,
Close by sweet Inchray cot,
An' aft, at e'en, stretched on its brow,
I've blest the lovely spot,
An' aun'd its sweets at evening calm,
Whan laid upon the gowan,
While breezes brought the heavenly balm,
Frae whare the rose was growin'.

Behind me, Craignavarnian Fell
Its purple heath-bell bore;
Before me, with an abrupt swell,
Appeared the wild Craigmore;
Far to the right, across Montieth,
Rose Stirling's castle-dwelling;
And, leftward, decked wi' snawy wreath,
Benlomond's breast was swelling.

O! weel I loo'd the simmer day,
Whan woods waved green to view;
An' gaily beamed the sunny ray
Upon the Avon-Dhu;
But whan thae bright glints took their leave,
That hour was best of any,
For then saft raise the Lamp o' eve,
Outowre the hills o' Glennie.

'Twas then, indeed, the knowe had charms,
I prized the heavenly hour;
For I entwined, within my arms,
Sweet Inchray's maiden flower!
And Craignavarnian smoothed his brow,
Look'd safter far at gloamin';
And lovelier was the Avon-Dhu,
Beneath the moon-beams roamin'.

Grand is the dwelling o' the Gaël
Whan bright the sun-beams smile,
An' lovely is that lonely vale,
The strath o' Aberfoyle;
But, O! that gowan-sprinkled knowe
Is sweeter far than any,
For there I gat the maiden vow,
O' Inchray's bonny Jenny.

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE.

I wadna' lea' this bonny strath,
To cross the billow's roar;
Nor will I tempt the Almighty's wrath,
To quit my native shore:
I wadna' gie thee, Strath Montieth,
For foreign lands sae gaudy;
I'll ne'er desert the land o' Heath,
Nor my dear Highland Laddie.

I've seen our lassies gang awa,
An' lea' this bonny vale,
Seduc'd wi' mony a promise braw,
An' mony a flatterin' tale:
America's a soundin' name,
Folk say the best o' places;
But I've seen mony a ane come hame
Wi' want stampt i' their faces.

There is nae kintry like mine ain,
An' tho' some folk repine,
An' lea' our hills for sake o' gain—
That wish was never mine:
I'll never lea' thee, Strath Montieth,
For foreign lands sae gaudy,
Nor will I quit the land o' Heath
Nor my dear Highland Laddie.

DUKE MURDOCH.

[_]

Murdoch, Duke of Albany, Uncle to James the Third, suffered in the reign of that Monarch for stirring up a rebellion. He was an ambitious man, and vainly attempted to set the Crown on his own head.—The ruins of his Castle are still to be seen in an Island on Loch-Ard.

At Beltein a fire on Benledi blazed high,
And the volumes of flame half illumined the sky,
The gray tower of Stirling was seen far to redden,
And the flashes were viewed from the rock of Dun-Eden;
Benvoirlich's high summit, and dark Benvenue,
Brightened up from their gloom to a light yellow hue;
While lovely Loch Keturine returned the red glow
From the place of her rest, like a mirror below—
An aged Seer stood by a moss-covered stone,
He was wrapt up in visions, but was not alone;
Duke Murdoch stood nigh him, and marked the gray Sire
As he motionless looked on the pillar of fire;
Intent on the eddying volume of flame,
To decypher the fortune of Albany's name.

Duke Murdoch gazed on, and a stern look he wore,
As he leaned on the hilt of his trusty Claymore;
The one was so proud, and the other so pale,
They appeared like the ghosts of the Saxon and Gaël!
“Duke Murdoch,” (at length the old Seer began)
“Return to thy Castle, return to thy clan,
And ne'er let the pibroch of warfare be heard
On the strath of Montieth, or the banks of Loch-Ard,
Else the gray moss of ruin thy Castle shall wear,
And the scaffold will finish thy mortal career;
For the hand that must fall on the chief of thy line,
Will soon be uplifted, but must not be thine.”
The proud highland chieftain turned from him in ire,
And haughtily bade him remain by his fire;
“The Crown shall be mine, ye may tell it King James,
And my Claymore and Clan are the pledge of my claims.”

Duke Murdoch, as told by the old Highland Seer,
As a Traitor, a Rebel, soon closed his career;
For the young Monarch stretched forth his hand, and dashed down
His proud haughty kinsman, who aimed at the Crown,
Then, relentless, moved on like a fire on the heath,
Nor called back his sword to its rest in the sheath,
'Till the last of the Clan lay in death on the ground,
And the firebrand had covered the castle around.

I've seen the lone ruin on lovely Loch-Ard,
Where the fox and the woe-loving raven are heard,
There, in old times, the “rose of the wilderness grew,”
And the fair flowers of Albyn spread rich to the view;
While Albany's pennon waved over the walls,
And the voice of festivity gladdened the halls;—
But gone are those times, and the ruins but bring
The remembrance of one who was false to his King.

ELEGIAC STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF MRS R---.

Plant the dark Cypress on the grave,
And twine it with the mournful Rue,
And let for ever o'er it wave
The branches of the lonely Yew:
For never fairer floweret grew
Than she who rests within that tomb;
The bud half opened, fair to view,
Then withered in its early bloom.

I recollect thy early days,
Sweet Scion! beauty's opening pride!
With rapture then I'd on thee gaze,
A lambkin by thy mother's side;
In after times, a blooming bride
Ye offered up thy virgin vow,
With youth and honour at thy side—
But where are these endearments now?

Shortly to thee delight was given,
The day of bliss too soon did lowr;
Yet in thy face the joy of heaven
Beamed sweetly in the trying hour;
Sweet Innocent! sin had no power
To lay on thee his iron rod;
But angels cropt the lovely flower,
And bore it proudly to its God.

Thy gentle spirit, hovering nigh,
May sometimes rest upon the tomb,
To hear the swelling filial sigh,
When Mary muses on thy doom:
In morning's dawn, in eve's soft gloom,
She'll pass her loneliest, sweetest hours,
And, in the pride of nature's bloom,
She'll strew thy grave with lovely flowers.

Young traveller on life's thorny ground,
Where'er ye go, howe'er ye fare,
Thy mother's spirit, hovering round,
Will be thy guardian angel there:
She'll watch thee thro' this land of care,
She'll breathe on thee the prayer of bliss;
And in full time, O! may'st thou share
With her the joys of paradise.

Then plant the Cypress on the grave,
And twine it with the mournful Rue,
And let for ever o'er it wave,
The branches of the lonely Yew:
For never fairer floweret grew
Than she who rests within that tomb;
The bud half opened, fair to view,
Then withered in its early bloom.

Since writing the above, Mrs R's first and only daughter, Mary, has joined her mother in the tomb.

TO The Memory OF COLONEL CAMERON, YOUNGER OF LOCHIEL, WHO FELL NOBLY AT WATERLOO.

Sheathed is the sword of war,
The conflict is ended;
But the joy-voice, afar,
With wailing is blended:
True was his heart of steel,
Honour was its fountain;
Wail for the brave Lochiel,
Son of the mountain!

At famed Waterloo
His Claymore waved glorious;
To Caledonia true,
Ever victorious;

In the van of the brave,
Glory!—he won it;
Tost on the battle-wave
Were the plumes of his bonnet.

Ye maidens of Waterloo
Sigh for the Chieftain;
Sprinkle o'er him the dew,
When dew-clouds are drifting:
Renowned was his noble name,
Resplendent in story;
He fell in the field of fame
In the brightness of glory!

And here, on his native hills,
Be Coronachs wailing;
While echo each valley fills,
In lone Straths prevailing.
Soon art thou set, Lochiel,
“Son of the morning!”
Ye fell for Caledonia's weal,
Her bright page adorning.

TO The Memory OF LORD BALMERINO,

Who was beheaded on Tower-hill, 1746, for his steady attachment to the House of Stuart.

Balmerino's hand never trembled with fear
At the sound of the mufled drum rolling,
He breathed not a sigh, he dropt not a tear,
When the Tower's sullen deep bell was tolling;
Undaunted, a high look the Scot's Chieftain wore,
In his bosom beat proudly a true heart,
From the cradle of youth to the Scaffold, he bore,
Unchanged, his attachment to Stuart.

O! stately he trode on the black scaffold board,
As if pacing his mountains and vallies,
Calm, dignified, grand, he looked the Scots Lord
Stepping free in his ancestor's palace;
He retracted no word at the place of blood,
He uttered no accent of sorrow,
The Martyr for Stuart, a noblemen stood,
Who feared not, nor courted that morrow,

He surveyed with a smile the apparatus of death,
The axe and the block hung with mourning;
Yet all the dread emblems ne'er staggered his faith,
His loyalty brighter was burning,
“God Save Great King George,” burst with loudest acclaims,
Did Balmerino utter it?—Never—
He knelt to the block, and said, “God Save King James,
Dropped his hands, and life vanished for ever.

His signal to the executioner.

GARTMORE's LILY FLOWER.

In Gartmore woods, sae gaudy green,
I heard the summer's gentle sigh;
And aye I blest the lovely scene,
As round I turned my raptured eye:
The glorious sun in cloudless sky,
The melody frae ilka bower,—
“'Tis grand!” was my enraptured cry,
“But whare is Gartmore's Lily Flower?”

The sun glints sweet owre Strath Monteith,
An' mony a lovely spot is there;
On yon far hill, like snawy wreath,
Stauns Stirling's princely Castle fair;
Beyond, the landscape melts in air,
Like vision raised by fairy power!
O! could I my fond rapture share,
Wi' Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower!

But she is gane to “bonny France,”
An' left the loveliest sweetest hame;—
Around new scenes her eyes will glance,
But they'll ne'er admiration claim:
To the sweet dwelling o' the Grahame,
Her soul will turn, in lonely hour,
An' mony a sang o' wae she'll frame,
Whan far awa—my Lily Flower.

France weel may boast her Lilies now,
An' bid the English Rose compare;
England may knit her haughty brow,
And yield the prize in wild despair:
France ne'er possessed a bud more fair,
Since Mary Stuart graced her bower;—
Nane, nane will be so lovely there,
As Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.

Alane I wander thro' thae fields,
Alane I see the flowerets blaw;
The gaudy scene nae pleasure yields,
Nor will it admiration draw;
O! thou dread Power who rules ower a',
Thy choicest mercies on her shower,—
Be kind to her wha's far awa',
Sweet Gartmore's bonny Lily Flower.

THE MUSIC OF THE HEATHER.

[_]

Air—The death of Nelson, from the Opera of the Americans.

Proud Caledon was true
On the field of Waterloo,
Her fame was sealed that day;—
By her own Chiefs led on,
Old Albyn nobly shone
'Mid havoc and dismay,
Undauntedly the foe she met,
And smiled when the bright bayonet
And Claymore clashed together;
Unbroken by the battle-wave,
The spirit-stirring war-pipes gave
The Music of the Heather.

“Let the Cuirassiers advance,—
“We'll tame the boast of France,
“Tho' they be two to one;
“Level the bay'net low,
“On, on upon the foe”—
The bloody work is done!
The pride of France is blasted now,
Death's livid streaks are on each brow,
They lye in heaps together!
Once only felt they Albyn's arm,
Once only heard that dying charm,
The Music of the Heather.

On glorious Waterloo
The Scottish banner flew
Broad on the breezes free;
While the Scot, with fiery eye,
Raised the loud and fearful cry,
Of “Death or Victory!”
That was the day of Albyn's might,
When France's glory, in the fight,
Evanished all together;
And if her foes should stir again,
May Albyn lull them with that strain,
The Music of the Heather!

THE GATHERING OF CLAN MACFARLANE.

Send the fiery cross swift o'er the dark glens and fountains,
Kindle the beacon on dreary Ross-dhu,
Let hundreds flame high on the Arochar mountains,
The flowers of M'Farlane will soon be in view;
Bid the pibrochs sound bravely in gloomy Glenfruin,
Tho' M'Gregor be backed by the proud sider roy,
They step to the battle, they march to their ruin,
We'll welcome them there with the shout of Loch-Sloy.

When the Clan is insulted (for honour's their darling,)
They'll die on the heath if they cannot prevail;
For never a Clan, like the Clan of M'Farlane,
Trode the plain of the Saxon, or hill of the Gaël.

When round by the side of Benlomond they're wending,
Their proud stately march fills the bosom with joy;
While the pibroch its wild stormy measure is blending,
With “This I'll defend,” and the shout of Loch-Sloy.

M'Farlane steps forth in the bloom of his vigour,
His Sons move behind “like a bright ridge of flame.”
Now welcome to battle ye sons of Clan Gregor,
M'Farlane descends to the field of his fame:
Bid the war-pipes resound thro' the wilds of Glenfruin,
Let the Claymore in strength sweep around and destroy,
For M'Farlane will fall, or M'Gregor meet ruin,
On, on to the battle! ye heroes, Loch-Sloy!

The King's Soldier.

The gathering of the Clan.

The Motto.

THE SHANNOCHYLE,

A Farm, which commands a lovely prospect across the Vale of Monteith.

Whan youth was in its early flower,
An' I rejoiced in nature's spring;
How chearfu' sped the mornin' hour,
On careless rovin' wanton wing!
Fondly to those delights I cling,
Tho' now a cheerless lone exile;
And memory still with joy shall bring,
The past delights of Shannochyle.

I then pursued na' fortune's smile,
An' I was reckless o' her frown;
Careless was I o' villain's wile,
For in my Strath it was unknown:
I sighed na' for the pomp of town,
Thy vale, Monteith, was free o' guile;
An' what I wished to call mine own,
Was centered in sweet Shannochyle.

The roses bloom in Shannochyle,
But, pace the world, the thorns are there;
Delight dwalls aye in Shannochyle,
But, O! the world is fu' o' care,
The hours allotted to my share
Are numbered out wi' grief and toil,
An' aften, till my heart is sair,
I mourn the joys of Shannochyle.

Joy be wi' thee, sweet Strath Monteith,
Whare flowers their richest blossoms shed,
Whare Spring exhales her sweetest breath,
An' Summer busks her bonniest bed!
O! whan I'm numbered with the dead,
Bear me to my dear native soil;
For my fond wish is to be laid
Beneath the trees of Shannochyle.

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

The Lily and Rose did once fondly unite,
In the cheeks of the Maid of my heart,
And I fervently trusted that nothing would blight
The sweet blossoms, or cause them to part.

But to far distant climes I was destined to rove,
And fair breezes were kissing the sail;
'Twas then that I trembled and feared for my love,
For the bloom of the rose-bud grew pale.

The fair Lily crept o'er the bonny red Rose,
And asserted the cheeks were her own;
While the cowardly Rose, as if chaced by her foes,
Abjured the beautiful throne.

But O! when the gallant ship dashed thro' the sea,
And I snatched the last kiss on the shore;
While the boat's crew were only awaiting for me,
Bidding farewel to her I adore.

For a moment the rose-bud bloomed lovely and gay,
But, ah! 'twas the sign of despair;
In a tear-storm of woe it evanished away,
And the Lily reigned paramount there.

ELEGY,

WRITTEN IN ABERFOYLE CHURH-YARD.

There lies the last of all her race,—
O! she was lovely, kind, and true;
In her, young beauty's modest grace
Was just expanding to the view:
With it the brightest virtues grew;
But worth or beauty could not save,—
Death ne'er a lovelier victim drew
Into the dreary darksome grave.

O! where is now the promised bliss?
O! where is the betrothed bride?
Are all my prospects come to this,
Evanished thus my bosom pride?
A wanderer now, I onward glide,
A lonely, sad, wayfaring child;
Before me is a chaos wide,
A rude, a friendless, howling wild.

No more we'll wander, arm-in-arm,
Thro' the sweet vale of Aberfoyle;
For she, who gave that Strath its charm,
No more will glad it with her smile:
How often would we hours beguile,
When wandering on fair Duchray lea!
But never more I'll tread its soil,
For it is wrapt in gloom to me.

Each step reminds me of my loss,
I cannot look on wild Craigmore;
The Avon-Dhu I dare not cross,
We told our loves there o'er and o'er:
And when I see Loch-Ard's sweet shore,
Viewing the path where aft we sped,
I turn away—my heart is sair,
And many a bitter tear I shed.

I'll wander to some unknown spot,
And roam beneath the Indian sky;
But then will Jessy be forgot,
Or can I from my sorrows fly?
No, no,—I'll linger here and die,
And never leave my native soil;
And when death comes, O! may I lie
Beside my Love in Aberfoyle.

TO The Memory OF JOHN GRAHAM, OF CLAVER-HOUSE, LORD VISCOUNT DUNDEE,

Who fell at the moment of Victory, in the pass of Killicrankie.

He died not in bed, in the hour of age,
Hand feeble, and tresses hoary;
No! Dundee closed his warlike pilgrimage
In the hour of meridian glory:
No Churchman came nigh to teach him to die,
To point out the way, calm and coldly;
But the victory note, from the trumpet throat,
Sounded his requiem boldly.

Killicrankie's wild pass saw the Hero fall,
'Mid the drum-beat and musket rattle;
'Twas enough the stoutest heart to appal,
The shock of that furious battle.

He died on the field as a soldier should die,
Where the proudest of laurel-wreaths crowned him,
And, instead of a prayer, he was cheered with the cry,
Of victory shouting around him.

Let bigotry sleep, his arm pulled it down,
The gordian-knot he did sever;
He fought for his Prince, he defended the Crown,
And patriots will bless him for ever;
Not a wavering doubt, nor a shadow of fear,
Can be traced thro' a page of his story;
No! noble Dundee closed his gallant career
In the fulness of mortal glory!

CHAIRLICH VICH SHEUMAIS, &c.

Chairlich vich Sheumais, vich Chairlich, vich Sheumais,
The brave Stuart line never more will be found,
The last of thy race, like the sear-leaf of autumn,
Hath yielded to fate, and hath dropt to the ground.

Yet grand was thy purpose in youth's opening morrow,
To hazard thy life for thy heritage here;
But the dawn was soon clouded with black storms of sorrow,
And the bright smile of joy was bedimmed by a tear.

A wanderer, an outcast, the nursling of danger,
Ye grasped at thy Crown, but was schooled in the wild,
In the land of thy fathers a poor lonely stranger,
O! well might misfortune have called thee her child.

Ye heroes, from Bruce down to Stuart of Flodden,
Ye've watched him, the last of your number, with care,
Ye saw the red carnage on bloody Culloden,
And sprung to your blue fields in silent despair.

Chairlich vich Sheumais, vich Chairlich, vich Sheumais,
The bloom of the hardy Scots thistle hath fled,
The Princes and Chieftains who fought for its glory,
Are long since away, and at rest with the dead.

Charles the son of James, the son of Charles, the son of James.

THE LASS OF ABERFOYLE.

[_]

Air—The Highland Plaid.

My tortur'd bosom long shall feel
The pangs o' this last sad fareweel,
For far to foreign lands I stray,
To spend my hours in deepest wae;
Fareweel, my dear, my native soil,
Fareweel the braes o' Aberfoyle.

An' fare ye weel my winsome love,
Into whatever lands I rove,
Thou'lt claim the deepest, dearest sigh,
The warmest tear e'er wet mine eye,
An' whan I'm wan'rin' mony a mile,
I'll mourn for Kate o' Aberfoyle.

When tost upon the ragin' sea,
As thunders roar and lightnings flee,
When sweeping storms the ship assail,
I'll bless the music of the gale,
An' think, while listenin' a' the while,
I hear the storms o' Aberfoyle.

Katy! my only love, fareweel,
What pangs my faithfu' heart will feel
While strayin' thro' the Indian groves,
Weepin' our woes, our early loves;
I'll ne'er mair see my native soil,
Fareweel! fareweel! sweet Aberfoyle!

ABERFOYLE IN MOON-LIGHT.

How lovely in moon-light is sweet Aberfoyle,
When the night-breeze the forest is waving,
While the foaming cataract, bright gleaming the while,
In the mountain's dark bosom is raving.

Then far up the Strath, what lights and what shades,
Burst full on the eye altogether!
Sometimes a dark hollow the bright beam pervades,
And sometimes it rests on the heather.

The highlander points where the silent Diune Shie
Dwells in glory by cascade or fountain,
And often, methought, 'twould be rapture to see,
And converse with these sons of the mountain.

O! lovely at midnight, when breezes are balm,
To list to the cataract falling,
Or to hear the wild swan, when all round is calm,
Thro' the clouds at long intervals calling.

Wrapt up in my plaid on the top of Craigmore,
Enraptured I've marked Strath and river:
Viewed the calm waveless loch, when the moon-beams hung o'er,
And thought I could gaze there for ever.

O! lovely in moon-light is sweet Aberfoyle,
By the calm loch, the cascade or fountain,
Or wandering alone, when the bright beam, meanwhile,
Is asleep on the side of the mountain.

In that last human effort, the combat of death,
Ere the dark cloud before mine eyes gather,
'Twill add one pulse more, when I think on my strath,
That gem in the midst of the Heather.

FINIS.