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19.

To this is join'd the sacred song,
The royal minstrel's hallowed strain;
Though he, who hears the music long,
Will never wish to hear again.

20.

Our choir would scarcely be excus'd,
Even as a band of raw beginners;
All mercy, now, must be refus'd,
To such a set of croaking sinners.

21.

If David, when his toils were ended,
Had heard these blockheads sing before him,

To us, his psalms had ne'er descended,

In furious mood, he would have tore 'em.

22.

The luckless Israelites, when taken,.
By some inhuman tyrant's order,
Were ask'd to sing, by joy forsaken,
On Babylonian river's border.

23.

Oh! had they sung in notes like these,
Inspir'd by stratagem or fear;

They might have set their hearts at ease,

The devil a soul had stay'd to hear.

24.

But, if I scribble longer now,

The deuce a soul will stay to read; My pen is blunt, my ink is low, 'Tis almost time to stop, indeed.

25.

Therefore, farewell, old GRANTA's spires,
No more, like Cleofas, I fly;

No more thy theme my Muse inspires,
The reader's tir'd, and so am I.

LACHIN Y. GAIR.

LACHIN Y. GAIR, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, LOCH NA GARR, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld.

One of our modern Tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in GREAT BRITAIN; be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our «< Caledonian Alps. » Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows: near Lachin y. Gair, I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to the following stanzas.

I.

AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses!
In you, let the minions of luxury rove;

Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes,
Tho' still they are sacred to freedom and love:
Yet, Caledonia, belov'd are thy mountains,

Round their white summits tho' elements war,
Tho' cataracts foam, 'stead of smooth flowing fountains,
I sigh for the valley of dark Loch na Garr.

2.

Ah! there my young footsteps, in infancy, wander'd, My cap was the bonnet, my cloak was the plaid (1); On chieftains, long perish'd, my memory ponder'd,

As daily I strode thro' the pine-cover'd glade;

(1) This word is erroneously pronounced PLAD, the proper pronunciation (according to the Scotch) is shewn by the orthography.

I sought not my home, till the day's dying glory
Gave place to the rays of the bright polar star;
For Fancy was cheer'd, by traditional story,
Disclos'd by the natives of dark Loch na Garr.

3.

«Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices «Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?» Surely, the soul of the hero rejoices,

And rides on the wind, o'er his own Highland vale: Round Loch na Garr, while the stormy mist gathers, Winter presides in his cold icy car;

Clouds, there, encircle the forms of my fathers— They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch na Garr:

་་

4.

« Ill starred (1), tho' brave, did no visions foreboding, Tell that fate had forsaken your cause ? » you Ah! were you destin'd to die at Culloden (2), Victory crown'd not your fall with applause;

(1) I allude here to my maternal ancestors, « the GORDONS,» many of whom fought for the unfortunate Prince Charles, better known by the name of the Pretender. This branch was nearly allied by blood, as well as attachment, to the STEWARTS. George, the 2d Earl of Huntley, married the Princess Annabella Stewart, daughter of James the first of Scotland; by her he left four sons; the 3rd, Sir William Gordon, I have the honour to claim as one of my progenitors.

(2) Whether any perished in the battle of Culloden I am not certain; but as many fell in the insurrection, I have used the name of the principal action, « pars pro toto. »>

Still, were you happy, in death's early slumber,

You rest with your clan, in the caves of Braemar (1), The pibroch (2) resounds, to the piper's loud number, Your deeds, on the echoes of dark Loch na Garr.

5.

Years have roll'd on, Loch na Garr, since I left you;
Years must elapse, ere I tread you again;

Nature of verdure and flowers has bereft you,
Yet, still, are you dearer than Albion's plain :
England! thy beauties are tame and domestic,
To one who has rov'd on the mountains afar;
Oh! for the crags that are wild and majestic,

The steep frowning glories of dark Loch na Garr!

(1) A tract of the Highlands so called; there is also a Castle of Braemar.

(2) The Bagpipe.

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