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“No, not to these, for they have rest, The mist-wreath has the mountain-crest, The stag his lair, the erne her nest,

Abode of lone security. But those for whom I pour the lay, Not wild-wood deep, nor mountain grey, Not this deep dell, that shrouds from day,

Could screen from treach'rous cruelty.

“ Their flag was furld, and mute their drum, The very household dogs were dumb, Unwont to bay at guests that come

In guise of hospitality.

instantly admitted. Macdonald, while in the act of rising to receive his guest, was shot dead through the back with two bullets. His wife had already dressed; but she was stripped naked by the soldiers, who tore the rings off her fingers with their teeth. The slaughter now became general, and neither age nor infirmity was spared. Some women, in defending their children, were killed; boys imploring mercy, were shot dead by officers on whose knees they hung. In one place nine persons, as they sat enjoying themselves at table, were butchered by the soldiers. In Inverriggon, Campbell's own quarters, nine men were first bound by the soldiers, and then shot at intervals, one by one. Nearly forty persons were massacred by the troops; and several who fled to the mountains perished by famine and the inclemency of the season. Those who escaped owed their lives to a tempestuous night. Lieutenant-Colonel Hamilton, who had received the charge of the execution from Dalrymple, was on his march with four hundred men, to guard all the passes from the valley of Glencoe; but he was obliged to stop by the severity of the weather, which proved the safety of the unfortunate clan. Next day he entered the valley, laid the houses in ashes, and carried

away

the cattle and spoil, which were divided among the officers and soldiers.” — Article “ BRITAIN;" Encyc. Britannica New edition.)

His blithest notes the piper plied,
Her gayest snood the maiden tied,

To tend her kindly housewifery.

“ The hand that mingled in the meal,
At midnight drew the selon steel,
And gave the host's kind breast to feel

Meed for his hospitality !
The friendly hearth which warm'd that hand
At midnight arm'd it with the brand,
That bade destruction's flames expand

Their red and fearful blazonry.

“ Then woman's shriek was heard in vain, Nor infancy's unpitied plain, More than the warrior's groan, could gain

Respite from ruthless butchery! The winter wind that whistled shrill, The shows that night that cloked the hill, Though wild and pitiless, had still

Far more than Southron clemency.

“ Long have my harp's best notes been gone, Few are its strings, and faint their tone, They can but sound in desert lone

Their grey-hair'd master's misery. Were each grey hair a minstrel string, Each chord should imprecations fling, Till startled Scotland loud should ring,

Revenge for blood and treachery !

PROLOGUE

TO MISS BAILLIE'S PLAY

OF THE

FAMILY LEGEND.'

'Tis sweet to hear expiring Summer's sigh,
Through forests tinged with russet, wail and die;
'Tis sweet and sad the latest notes to hear
Of distant music, dying on the ear;
But far more sadly sweet, on foreign strand,
We list the legends of our native land,
Link'd as they come with every tender tie,
Memorials dear of youth and infancy.

Chief, thy wild tales, romantic Caledon,
Wake keen remembrance in each hardy son.
Whether on India's burning coasts he toil,
Or till Arcadia's? winter-fetter'd soil,
He hears with throbbing heart and moisten'd eyes,
And, as he hears, what dear illusions rise !

*[Miss Baillie's Family Legend was produced with considerable success on the Edinburgh stage in the winter of 1809–10. This prologue was spoken on that occasion by the Author's friend, Mr. Daniel Terry.]

Arcadia, or Nova Scotia

2

It opens on his soul his native dell,
The woods wild waving, and the water's swell;
Tradition's theme, the tower that threats the plain,
The
mossy

cairn that hides the hero slain;
The cot beneath whose simple porch were told,
By grey-bair'd patriarch, the tales of old,
The infant group that hush'd their sports the while,
And the dear maid who listen'd with a smile.
The wanderer, while the vision warms his brain,
Is denizen of Scotland once again.

Are such keen feelings to the crowd confined, And sleep they in the Poet's gifted mind? Oh no! For She, within whose mighty page Each tyrant Passion shows his woe and rage, Has felt the wizard influence they inspire, And to your own traditions tuned her lyre. Yourselves shall judge — whoe'er has raised the sail By Mull's dark coast, has heard this evening's tale. The plaided boatman, resting on his oar, Points to the fatal rock amid the roar Of whitening waves, and tells whate'er to-night Our humble stage shall offer to your sight; Proudly preferr'd that first our efforts give Scenes glowing from her pen to breathe and live; More proudly yet, should Caledon approve The filial token of a Daughter's love.

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE,

HIGH CHIEF OF KINTAIL.

FROM THE GAELIC.

(1815.)

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of

which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs. They were composed by the Family Bard, upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

FAREWELL to Mackenneth, great Earl of the North, The Lord of Lochcarron, Glenshiel, and Seaforth; To the Chieftain this morning his course who began, Launching forth on the billows his bark like a swan. For a far foreign land he has hoisted his sail, Farewell to Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail !

O swift be the galley, and hardy her crew,
May her captain be skilful, her mariners true,
In danger undaunted, unwearied by toil,
Though the whirlwind should rise, and the ocean

should boil :

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