Sad is my fate! said the heart-broken stranger;
The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee,
But I have no refuge from famine and danger,
A home and a country remain not to me.
Never again, in the green sunny bowers,

Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours,
Or cover my harp with the wild-woven flowers,

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh!

Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,
In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore;
But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
O cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me

In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild wood?
Sisters and sire! did ye weep for its fall?
Where is the mother that looked on my childhood?
And where is the bosom friend, dearer than all?
O, my sad heart! long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure?

Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without measure,
But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

Yet, all its sad recollections suppressing,
One dying wish my lone bosom can draw :
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing!

Land of my forefathers! Erin go bragh!

Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion,
Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud, with devotion,
Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!*

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.—

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"——

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief- I'm ready:-
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady :

* Ireland my darling, Ireland forever.

"And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry:

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.-

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father!"

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,

When, O! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.-

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.—

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried, in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! O my daughter!"

'T was vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er,
Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume

Her wings of immortality:

Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at BURNS's name,
Exorcised by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And love's own strain to him was given,

To warble all its ecstasies

With Pythian words unsought, unwilled,

Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,

The choicest sweet of Paradise,

In life's else bitter cup distilled.

Who that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love?
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skilled one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-souled peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught! — how much
To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the Muse
Entranced, and showed him all the forms,
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom
(That only gifted Poet views),
The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.
On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom BURNS's song inspires!
Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,

With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile, tanned

By many a far and foreign clime,
Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep

In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,

And ties that stretch beyond the deep.