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,

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.

Till every sneering youth around

inquires,

Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,

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
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.
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.

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,
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.

THE DREARY CHANGE.

(1817.)

THE Sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill,
In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet;
The westland wind is hush and still,
The lake lies sleeping at my feet.
Yet not the landscape to mine eye
Bears those bright hues that once
it bore;

Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore.

With listless look along the plain,
I see Tweed's silver current glide,

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
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar grey
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!

On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,

O miserere, Domine!

Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill:
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,

O miserere, Domine!

Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughter'd down by heathen blade,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid :
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,

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!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird can lilt and sing,
Blithely dance the Hieland fling,
Drink till the gudeman be blind,
Fleech till the gudewife be kind;
Hoop a leglin, clout a pan,
Or crack a pow wi' ony man;

Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.

Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.

death-dirge before me,

The pall of the dead for a mantle

hangs o'er me;

Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin',
Leisters kipper, makes a shift
To shoot a muir-fowl in the drift;

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;
Not for bountith or rewaird
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird.

Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Gar the bagpipes hum amain,
Donald Caird's come again.

unwilling we sever,

Return-return-return shall We

never!

Fast as hostler-wife can fill;
Ilka ane that sells gude liquor
Kens how Donald bends a bicker;