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and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was im- the head of an army superior to his own. The pressed with a belief, which the event verified, words of the set theme, or melody, to which the that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: and hence the Gaelic words, “ Cha till mi tuille ; Piobaireachd Dhonuil, piobaireachd Dhonuil; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon,“ I shall Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mack- Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; rimmon shall never return !” The piece is but too Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. well known, from its being the strain with which the pipe summons of Donald the Black, the emigrants from the west highlands and isles The pipe summons of Donald the Black, usually take leave of their native shore.

The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place

at Inverlochy.

MACLEOD's wizard flag from the gray 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 foam

ing; Farewell, each dark glen, in which red deer are

roaming; Farewell, lonely Syke, to lake, mountain, and river, Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never !

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clan-Conuil.
Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons !
Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons.

“Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are

sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are

weeping; To each minstrel delusion, farewell !-and for

ever! Mackrimmon departs to return to you never ! The banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge be

fore me, The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me : But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall

not shiver, Though devoted I go-to return again never !

Come from deep glen, and

From mountain so rocky,
The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy:
Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter ;
Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges ;
Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come when

Forests are rended ;
Come as the waves come when

Navies are stranded ;
Faste

come, faster come,
Faster and faster,
Chief, vassal, page, and groom,

Tenant and master.

« Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewail

ing Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing; Dear land ! to the shores, whence unwilling we

sever,
Return-return-return-shall we 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,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon !"

Fast they come, fast they come ;

See how they gather!
Wide waves the eagle plume,

Blended with heather.
Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu,

Knell for the onset!

PIBROCH OF DONALD DHU.

WRITTEN FOR ALB YN'S ANTHOLOGY.

Air-Piobair of Dhonuil Duidh.*

THE DANCE OF DEATH.

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to the clan Mac-Donald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in 1431, launched from the isles with a considerable force, invaded Lochabar, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to fight the Earls of Marr and Caithness, though at

Night and morning were at meeting

Over Waterloo ;
Cocks had sung their earliest greeting,

Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John ;

*"The pibroch of Donald the Black."

And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray,

And of the destined dead.

SONG.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.

Tempest clouds prolong'd the sway
Of timeless darkness over day ;
Whirlwind, thunderclap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.
Broad and frequent through the night
Flash'd the sheets of levin light ;
Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouack

Where the soldier lay,
Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,
Wishing dawn of morn again,
Though death should come with day.
'Tis at such a tide and hour,
Wizard, witch, and fiend have power,
And ghastly forms through mist and shower,

Gleam on the gifted ken;
And then th' affrighted prophet's ear
Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,
Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men.
Apart from Albyn's war-array,
'Twas then gray Allan sleepless lay ;
Gray Allan, who for many a day,

Had follow'd stout and stern,
Where through battle's rout and reel,
Storm of shout and hedge of steel,
Led the grandson of Lochiel,

Valiant Fassiefern.
Through steel and shot he leads no more-
Low laid mid friends and foemen's gore-
But long his native lake's wild shore,
And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,

And Morven long shall tell,
And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe,
How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras,
Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra

Of conquest as he fell.

Our airy feet,
So light and fleet,

They do not bend the rye,
That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave,
And swells again in eddying wave,

As each wild gust blows by ;
But still the corn,
At dawn of morn,

Our fatal steps that bore,
At eve lies waste,
A trampled paste

Of blackening mud and gore.
Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Wheel the wild dance,
Brave sons of France !

For you our ring makes room;
Make space full wide
For martial pride,
For banner, spear,

and plume.
Approach, draw near,
Proud cuirassier !

Room for the men of steel!
Through crest and plate
The broadsword's weight,

Both head and heart shall feel.

Lone on the outskirts of the host,
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness, far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloak'd patrol their course,
And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse ;
But there are sounds in Allan's ear
Patrol nor sentinel may hear;
And sights before his eyes aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,

When down the destined plain
'Twixt Britain and the bands of France,
Wild as marsh-borne meteors glance,
Strange phantoms wheeld a revel dance,

And doom'd the future slain.-
Such forms were seen, such sounds were

heard,
When Scotland's James his march prepared

For Flodden's fatal plain ;
Such, when he drew his ruthless sword,
As choosers of the slain, adored

The yet unchristen's Dane.
An indistinct and phantom band,
They wheeld their ring-dance hand in hand,

With gesture wild and dread;
The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,
Saw through their faint and shadowy form

The lightnings flash more red;

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,
And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Sons of the spear!
You feel us near,

In many a ghastly dream;
With fancy's eye
Our forms you spy,

And hear our fatal scream.
With clearer sight
Ere falls the night,

Just when to weal or wo
Your disembodied souls take flight
On trembling wing-each startled sprite

Our choir of death shall know.

Wheel the wild dance,
While lightnings glance,

And thunders rattle loud,

HELLVELLYN.

And call the brave
To bloody grave,

To sleep without a shroud.
Burst, ye clouds, in tempest showers,
Redder rain shall soon be ours-

See, the east grows wan-
Yield we place to sterner game,
Ere deadlier bolts and drearer flame
Shall the welkin's thunders shame;
Elemental rage is tame

To the wrath of man.
At morp, gray Allan's mates with awe
Heard of the vision's sights he saw,

The legend heard him say:
But the seer's gifted eye was dim,
Deafen'd his car, and stark his limb,

Ere closed that bloody day.
He sleeps far from his highland heath-
But often of the Dance of Death

His comrades tell the tale
On piquet-post, when ebbs the night,
And waning watch-fires grow less bright,

And dawn is glimmering pale.

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I CLIMB'D the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,
Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty

and wide;
All was still, save by fits when the eagle was yell-

ing,
And starting around me the echoes replied.
On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was

bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,
One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,
When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer

had died.

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me,

heather, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to

Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in

decay, roam, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.

Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild,

clay. speaking

Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, The language alternate of rapture and wo:

For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 0! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are

The much-loved remains of her master defended, breaking,

And chased the hill fox and the raven away. The pang that I feel at our parting can know.

How long didst thou think that his silence was Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came slumber? sorrow,

When the wind waved his garment, how oft Or fale disappointment, to darken my way,

didst thou start? What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- How many long days and long weeks didst thou morrow,

number, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? But when friends drop around us in life's weary And, O! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er

waning, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, suage ;

And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remain him, ing,

Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart? The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.

When a prince to the fate of the peasant has 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewail yielded, ing,

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, hall; And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: As vain those enchantments, O queen of wild Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches numbers,

are gleaming; To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beamAnd the quick pulse of feeling in apatby slumbers.

ing; Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming,

Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.

him,

miore.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through To lay down thy head like the meek mountain channel, lamb:

Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilderd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright annal, stature,

Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake Enough, now thy story in annals of glory, lying,

Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying,

Spain ;
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

leave me,
I never will part with my Willie again.

WANDERING WILLIE.

HUNTING SONG,

All joy was bereft me the day that you left me,

And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,

And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,
With hawk, and horse, and hunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,

Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune,

Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting,

Now I hae gotten my Willie again.

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When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were

wailing, I sat on the beach wi’ the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was

sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a'blaw on me.

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,

Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,
Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,
That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean

faem.

Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The inist has left the mountain gray,
Springlets in the dawn are streaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been,
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
To the greenwood haste away
We can show you where he lies,
Fleet of foot, and tall of size ;
We can show the marks he made,
When 'gainst the oak his antlers fray'd;
You shall see him brought to bay,
“Waken, lords and ladies gay."
Louder, louder chant the lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay!
Tell them youth, and mirth, and glee,
Run a course as well as we:
Time, stern huntsman! who can balk,
Stanch as hound, and fleet as hawk:
Think of this, and rise with day,
Gentle lords and ladies gay.

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THE BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE

AUTUMN OF 1804.

Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pon

der'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the

tree Now I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd,

Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me.

The forest of Glenmore is drear,

It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer

Is whistling the forest lullaby :

FROM THE FRENCH.

The moon looks through the drifting storm,

“ When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, But the troubled lake reflects not her form, And blades round warriors' heads were fung, For the waves roll whitening to the land,

The foremost of the band were we, And dash against the shelvy strand.

And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!" There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock;
There is a voice within the wood,

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.
The voice of the bard in fitful mood;
His song was louder than the blast,
As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

The original of this little romance makes part “ Wake ye from your sleep of death,

of a manuscript collection of French songs, probaMinstrels and bards of other days!

bly compiled by some young officer, which was For the midnight wind is on the heath,

found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate The spectre with his bloody hand, *

what had been the fate of its late owner. The Is wandering through the wild woodland;

song is popular in France, and is rather a good The owl and the raven are mute for dread, specimen of the style of composition to which it beAnd the time is meet to awake the dead ! longs. The translation is strictly literal. “ Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were strung,

It was Dunois, the young and brave, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,

Was bound for Palestine, And on your shores her Norsemen flung?

But first he made his orison Her Norsemen train’d to spoil and blood,

Before Saint Mary's shrine: Skill'd to prepare the raven's food,

“And grant, immortal queen of heaven,"

Was still the soldier's prayer,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t

“ That I may prove the bravest knight,

And love the fairest fair.” “ Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

His oath of honour on the shrine Nor through the pines with whistling change,

He graved it with his sword, Mimic the harp's wild harmony !

And follow'd to the Holy Land Mute are ye now ?-Ye ne'er were mute,

The banner of his lord; When Murder with his bloody foot,

Where, faithful to his noble vow, And Rapine with his iron hand,

His war-cry fill'd the air, Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

“ Be honour'd aye the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair." “ O yet awake the strain to tell, By every deed in song enrollid,

They owed the conquest to his arm, By every chief who fought or fell,

And then his liege lord said, For Albion's weal in battle bold ;

“ The heart that has for honour beat, From Coilgach, first who rolled his car,

By bliss mast be repaid ;-Through the deep ranks of Roman war,

My daughter Isabel and thou To him, of veteran memory dear,

Shall be a wedded pair, Who victor died on Aboukir.

For thou art bravest of the brave,

She sairest of the fair." “ By all their swords, by all their scars, By all their names, a mighty spell!

And then they bound the boly knot By all their wounds, by all their wars,

Before Saint Mary's shrine, Arise, the mighty strain to tell!

That makes a paradise on earth,

If hearts and hands combine :
Fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,

And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come !"-

Cried, “Honour'd be the bravest knight,

Beloved the fairest fair !"
The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-

Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,
At the dread voice of other years

THE TROUBADOUR.
Tlie forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.

A Troubadour that hated sorrow, + Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats.

Beneath his lady's window came, # The Galgacus of Tacitus.

And thus he sung his last good morrow :

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