war,

What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? "T is thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the

gate.

A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led !
O, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,

Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

LOCHIEL.

rock!

But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

WIZARD.

Lochiel, Lochiel beware of the day; For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before.

seer!

Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?

Ah no! for a darker departure is near ;
The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death-bell is tolling: O mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to
beat,

With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

LOCHIEL.

Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale;
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat!
Though my perishing ranks should be strewed
in their gore,

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe;
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of

fame!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

SCOTLAND.

FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL," CANTO VI

O CALEDONIA! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !

Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

That knits me to thy rugged strand?
Still, as I view each well-known scene,
Think what is now, and what hath been,
Seems as, to me, of all bereft,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left ;
And thus I love them better still,
Even in extremity of ill.

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,
Though none should guide my feeble way;
Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break,
Although it chilled my withered cheek;
Still lay my head by Teviot stone,
Though there, forgotten and alone,
The bard may draw his parting groan.

ENGLAND.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

FROM "THE TIMEPIECE": "THE TASK," BOOK 11.

ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still, My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy

clime

Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy senate, and from eight sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task:
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
As any thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates whose very looks
Reflect dishonor on the land I love.

How, in the name of soldiership and sense,

Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause ?
Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother
tongue,

And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his

own.

WILLIAM COWPER

THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND. WHEN mighty roast beef was the Englishman's

food,

It ennobled our hearts, and enriched our blood; Our soldiers were brave, and our courtiers were good.

O, the Roast Beef of old England,
And O, the old English Roast Beef!

But since we have learned from effeminate
France

To eat their ragouts, as well as to dance,
We are fed up with nothing but vain complai-

sance.

O, the Roast Beef, etc.

HENRY FIELDING.

Our fathers of old were robust, stout, and strong. And kept open house with good cheer all day

long,

Which made their plump tenants rejoice in this song.

O, the Roast Beef, etc.

When good Queen Elizabeth sat on the throne, Ere coffee and tea, and such slip-slops, were known,

The world was in terror, if e'en she did frown. O, the Roast Beef, etc.

In those days, if fleets did presume on the main,
They seldom or never returned back again;
As witness the vaunting Armada of Spain.
O, the Roast Beef, etc.

[The lake of Gougaune Barra, i, e. the hollow, or recess of St. Finn Bar, in the rugged territory of Ibh-Laoghaire (the O'Learys' country) in the west end of the county of Cork, is the parent of the

Durham's stalls;

half an acre in extent, which approaches its eastern shore. The lake, as its name implies, is situate in a deep hollow, surrounded on

his cope.

charged) by vast and almost perpendicular mountains, whose dark inverted shadows are gloomily reflected in its still waters beneath.]

THERE is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra, Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow; In deep-valleyed Desmond — a thousand wild