Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,
Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,
To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail,
That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail!'

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

FROM THE GAELIC.

This song appears to be imperfect, or, at least, like many of the early Gaelic poems, makes a rapid transition from one subject to another; from the situation, namely, of one of the daughters of the clan, who opens the song by lamenting the absence of her lover, to an eulogium over the military glories of the Chieftain. The translator has endeavoured to imitate the abrupt style of the original.

1

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er
Since last we parted on the shore;
Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more,
Safe on that shore again!—

[The Honourable Lady Hood, daughter of the last Lord Seaforth, widow of Admiral Sir Samuel Hood, now Mrs. Stewart Mackenzie of Seaforth and Glasserton, 1833.]

'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the word:
Lachlan, of many a galley lord:
He call'd his kindred bands on board,
And launch'd them on the main.

Clan-Gillian' is to ocean gone;
Clan-Gillian fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil:

For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away
Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound
Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound:
Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round,

Shall shake their inmost cell.

Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze,
Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays!
The fools might face the lightning's blaze
As wisely and as well!

1i. e. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian. jjj

VERSES,

COMPOSED FOR THE OCCASION, ADAPTED TO HAYDN'S AIR,

"God Save the Emperor Francis,"

AND SUNG BY A SELECT BAND AFTER THE DINNEK GIVEN BY THE LORD PROVOST OF EDINBURGH TO THE

GRAND-DUKE NICHOLAS OF RUSSIA,

AND HIS SUITE, 19TH DECEMBER, 1816.

GOD protect brave ALEXANDER,
Heaven defend the noble Czar,
Mighty Russia's high Commander,
First in Europe's banded war;
For the realms he did deliver
From the tyrant overthrown,
Thou, of every good the Giver,
Grant him long to bless his own!
Bless him, 'mid his land's disaster,
For her rights who battled brave,
Of the land of foemen master,
Bless him who their wrongs forgave.
O'er his just resentment victor,
Victor over Europe's foes,

Late and long supreme director,
Grant in peace his reign may close.
Hail then, hail! illustrious Stranger!
Welcome to our mountain strand;
Mutual interests, hopes, and danger,
Link us with thy native land.

Freemen's force, or false beguiling,
Shall that union ne'er divide,
Hand in hand while peace is smiling,
And in battle side by side.'

LINES,2

WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITH.

When the lone pilgrim views afar
The shrine that is his guiding star,
With awe his footsteps print the road
Which the loved saint of yore has trod.
As near he draws, and yet more near,
His dim eye sparkles with a tear;
The Gothic fane's unwonted show,
The choral hymn, the tapers' glow,
Oppress his soul; while they delight
And chasten rapture with affright.

1 [Mr, afterwards Sir William Arbuthnot, the Lord Provost of Edinburgh, who had the honour to entertain the Grand-Duke, now Emperor of Russia, was a personal friend of Sir Walter Scott's; and these Verses, with their heading, are now given from the newspapers of 1816.]

2

[These lines were first printed in "The Forget-Me-Not, for 1834." They were written for recitation by the distinguished actress, Miss Smith, now Mrs. Bartley, on the night of her benefit at the Edinburgh Theatre, in 1817; but reached her too late for her purpose. In a letter which enclosed them, the poet intimated that they were written on the morning of the day on which they were sent—that he thought the idea better than the execution, and forwarded them with the hope of their adding perhaps " a little salt to the bill."]

No longer dare he think his toil
Can merit aught his patron's smile;
Too light appears the distant way,
The chilly eve, the sultry day—
All these endured no favour claim,
But murmuring forth the sainted name,
He lays his little offering down,
And only deprecates a frown.

We too, who ply the Thespian art, Oft feel such bodings of the heart, And, when our utmost powers are strain'd, Dare hardly hope your favour gain'd. She, who from sister climes has sought The ancient land where Wallace fought;Land long renown'd for arms and arts, And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts;She, as the flutterings here avow,

Feels all the pilgrim's terrors now;

Yet sure on Caledonian plain
The stranger never sued in vain.
'Tis yours the hospitable task

To give the applause she dare not ask;
And they who bid the pilgrim speed,
The pilgrim's blessing be their meed.

["O favour'd land! renown'd for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms."

Lines Written for Mr. J. Kemble.]