His garment was a top-coat, and an old one, His meal was a potato, and a cold one; But still for fun or frolic, and all that, In the round world was not the match of Pat. XXI. The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Which is with Paddy still a jolly day; When mass is ended, and his load of sins MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL ADDRESS ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE. (1817.) As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, Confess'd, and Mother Church hath And longs to rush on the embattled from her binns Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. To think my scenic hour for ever past, And that these valued plaudits are my last. 'By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Soli- Why should we part, while still some Till every sneering youth around inquires, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, Is this the man who once could What fervent benedictions now were And scorn assumes compassion's But my last part is play'd, my knell is doubtful mien And if your bosoms own this kindly debt Of old remembrance, how shall mine forget O, how forget!—how oft I hither came In anxious hope, how oft return'd with fame! How oft around your circle this weak hand Has waved immortal Shakespeare's magic wand Till the full burst of inspiration came, And I have felt, and you have fann'd the flame! By mem❜ry treasured, while her reign endures, Those hours must live-and all their charms are yours. rung, When c'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Is Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL. 144 LINES WRITTEN FOR MISS SMITHI. (1817.) WHEN the lone pilgrim views afar 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. O favour'd Land renown'd for She, who from sister climes has sought The ancient land where Wallace arts and arms, Formanly talent and for female charins, fought Land long renown'd for arms and arts, And conquering eyes and dauntless hearts-- She, as the flutterings here avow, THE DREARY CHANGE. (1817.) THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me? Alas, the warp'd and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape lowers, To feverish pulse cach gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill. MARCH OF THE MONKS OF BANGOR. (1817.) WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, O miserere, Domine! Weltering amid warriors slain, Sing, miserere, Domine! Bangor! o'er the murder wail! Long thy ruins told the tale, Shatter'd towers and broken arch | Long recall'd the woful march: On thy shrine no tapers burn, Never shall thy priests return; The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee, O miserere, Domine! EPISTLE TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, AT DRUMLANRIG CASTLE. Sanquhar, 2 o'clock, July 3, 1817. FROM ROSS, where the clouds on Benlomond are sleepingFrom Greenock, where Clyde to the Ocean is sweeping From Largs, where the Scots gave the Northmen a drillingFrom Ardrossan, whose harbour cost many a shilling From Old Cumnock, where beds are as hard as a plank, sir— From a chop and green pease, and a chicken in Sanquhar, This eve, please the Fates, at Drumlanrig we anchor. WALTER SCOTT. EPILOGUE TO THE APPEAL.' (Spoken by Mrs. Henry Siddons, Feb. 16, 1818.) A CAT of yore or else old Æsop lied) Was changed into a fair and blooming bride, But spied a mouse upon her marriage-¦ day, Forgot her spouse, and seized upon her prey; Even thus my bridegroom lawyer, as you saw, Threw off poor me, and pounced upon рара. His neck from Hymen's mystic knot made loose, He twisted round my sire's the literal noose. MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. (1818.) MACLEOD'S Wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver, As Mackrimmon sings, Farewell to Dunvegan for ever! Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming; Farewell, each dark glen, in which red-deer are roaming; Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river; Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never! Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping; To cach minstrel delusion, farewell and for ever! Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille! Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille, Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon!' DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN. (1818.) CHORUS. DONALD CAIRD's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! The Banshee's wild voice sings the Donald Caird can wire a maukin, death-dirge before me, The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me; Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin', But my heart shall not flag, and my Water-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,-- nerves shall not shiver, Though devoted I go-to return again never! Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing; He can wauk when they are sleepers; Donald Caird's come again! Dear land to the shores, whence Donald Caird can drink a gill unwilling we sever, Return-return-return shall We never! Fast as hostler-wife can fill; |