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“ When targets clash'd, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were fung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty !"


The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.
There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oak-
That mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, 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 !


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 be longs. The translation is strictly literal.

“ 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 fung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill’d to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t
“ Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange

Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines with whistling change,

Mimic the barp's wild harmony !
Mute are ye now ?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

It was Dunois, the young and brave,

Was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orison

Before Saint Mary's shrine : “And grant, immorta) 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.”

“O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enrollid, By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;From Coilgach, first who rolled his car, Through the deep ranks of Roman war, To him, of veteran memory dear, Who victor died on Aboukir.

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“ By all their swords, by all their scars,

By all their names, a mighty spell! By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! Fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, More impious than the heathen Dane, More grasping than all-grasping Rome, Gaul's ravening legions hither come !"The wind is hush'd, and still the lake

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years—

And then they bound the holy knot

Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,

If hearts and hands combine :
And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there, Cried, “ Honour'd be the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair !"

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.

THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good morrow :

“My arm it is my country's right,

“ Come, from Newbattle's* ancient spires, My heart is in my truelove's bower ;

Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, Gayly for love and fame to fight

And match the mettle of your sires,
Befits the gallant Troubadour.”

Carle, now the king's come!
And while he march'd with helm on head “ You're welcome hame, my Montague !f
And harp in hand, the descant rung,

Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh ;-
As faithful to his favourite maid,

I'm missing some that I may rue, The minstrel burden still he sung:

Carle, now the king's come! “My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower;

“ Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, Resolved for love and fame to fight,

You've graced my causeway mony a day ; I come, a gallant Troubadour.”

I'll weep the cause if you should stay, E’en when the battle-roar was deep,

Carle, now the king's come! With dauntless heart he hew'd his way « Come, premier duket and carry doun, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, Frae yonder craigs his ancient croun; And still was heard his warrior-lay :

It's had a lang sleep and a soun'“ My life it is my country's right,

But, Carle, now the king's come !
My heart is in my lady's bower ;
For love to die, for fame to fight,

“Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud ;

Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood,
Alas! upon the bloody field

Carle, now the king's come!
He fell beneath the foeman's glaive,
But still, reclining on his shield,

“Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath ; Expiring sung th' exulting stave :

Come, Hopetoun, feard on fields of death; “My life it is my country's right,

Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath ;
My heart is in my lady's bower ;

Carle, now the king's come!
For love and fame to fall in fight,
Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

“Come, Wemyss, wbo modest merit aids;
Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades;
Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ;

Carle, now the king's come!

“Come, stately Niddrie,|| auld and true,

Girt with the sword that Minden knew ; The news has flown frae mouth to mouth;

We have ower few such lairds as youThe north for ance has bang'd the south;

Carle, now the king's come! The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

" King Arthur's grown a common crier,
Carle, now the king's come.

He's heard in Fife and far Cantire,-

• Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire !!!
Carle, now the king's come !

Carle, now the king's come !
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing, “ Saint Abb roars out, • I see him pass

Carle, now the king's come ! Between Tantallon and the Bass !'-
Auld England held him lang and fast;

Calton,** get on your keeking-glass, And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;

Carle, now the king's come !"
But Scotland's turn has come at last-

The carline stopp'd ; and sure I am,
Carle, now the king's come !

For very glee had ta’en a dwam,
Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray,

But Oman help'd her to a dram.Thought never to have seen the day ;

Cogie, now the king's come!
He's been a weary time away

Cogie, now the king's come!
But, Carle, now the king's come!

Cogie, now the king's come!
She's skirling frae the Castle Hill,

I'se be four and ye's be toom,
The carline's voice is grown sae shrill,

Cogie, now the king's come !
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,
Carle, now the king's come !

* Seat of the Marquis of Lothian.

+ Uncle to the Duke of Buccleugh. “ Up, bairns," she cries,“ baith great and sma',

| Hamilton

$ The castle. And busk ye for the weapon shaw

ll Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble-looking old man, and Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!

a fine specimen of an ancient baron. Carle, now the king's come!

| There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat

** The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Scot- Frith of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, adxland, in August, 1822.

tously looking for the royal squadron.


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