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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 fillid the

air, “Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the

fairest fair.”

99

They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege

Lord said, “ The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be

repaid.My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the

fair.”

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 THE TROUBADOUR. "

fairest fair!”

FROM THE SAME COLLECTION.

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 courtry's right,

My heart is in my true-love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he march'd with helm on head

And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As, faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel-burden still he sung:
My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower ;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,

I come, a gallant Troubadour.”

Even when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep,

And still was heard his warrior-lay;

was

· The original of this ballad

ten and composed by the Duchesse de St. Leu. The translation has been set to music by Mr. Thomson. See his collection of Scottish Songs. 1826.]

“My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung the exulting stave:“My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

FROM THE FRENCH.'

Ir chanced that Cupid on a season,

By Fancy urged, resolved to wed, But could not settle whether Reason

Or Folly should partake his bed.

What does he then? – Upon my life,

'Twas bad example for a deity – He takes me Reason for a wife,

And Folly for his hours of gaiety.

Though thus he dealt in petty treason,

He loved them both in equal measure, Fidelity was born of Reason,

And Folly brought to bed of Pleasure.

*[This trifle also is from the French Collection, found at Waterloo. See Paul's Letters.]

SONG,

FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE

PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND.

(1814.]

0, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen,

When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foe

men, Pirt closed in his anguish the map of her reign ! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave

spirit To take for his country the safety of shame; O, then in her triumph remember his merit,

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the

furrow, The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,

And sigh while he fears he has sow'd it in vain; He may die ere his children shall reap in their glad

ness, But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his

claim; And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness,

While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name. Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,

In toils for our country preserved by his care, Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,

To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,

The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest shall Britain remember,

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction,

Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,

The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success and disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim ! With our tribute to Pitt join the praise of his Master,

Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his

name.

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad mea

sure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright trea

sure,
The wisdom that plann’d, and the zeal that obey'd !
Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory,

Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GRÆME;
A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their

story,
And hallow the goblet which flows to their fame.

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