Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame, To wake the wild deer never came, Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game

On Cheviot's rueful day; Keeldar was matchless in his speed, Than Tarras, ne'er was stancher steed, A peerless archer, Percy Rede:

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd their joys and woes,

Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,
By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near,
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,

The signs the hunters know ;With eyes of flame, and quivering ears The brake sagacious Keeldar nears; The restless palfrey paws and rears;

The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot!-Halloo! Halloo! Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue;

But woe the shaft that erring flew,—
That e'er it left the string!
And ill betide the faithless yew!
The stag bounds scatheless o'er the
dew,

And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound-he dies, he dies, Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound, But Keeldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise;
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death-but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite, bending low,

In speechless grief recline;
Can think he hears the senseless clay,
In unreproachful accents say,
'The hand that took my life away,

Dear master, was it thine?

'And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, Which sure some erring aim address'd, Since in your service prized, caress'd I in your service die;

And you may have a fleeter hound, To match the dun-deer's merry bound, But by your couch will ne'er be found

So true a guard as I.'

And to his last stout Percy rued The fatal chance, for when he stood 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,

And fell amid the fray, E'en with his dying voice he cried, 'Had Keeldar but been at my side, Your treacherous ambush had been spied

I had not died to-day !'

Remembrance of the erring bow Long since had join'd the tides which flow,

Conveying human bliss and woe

Down dark oblivion's river;
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest,
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's
breast,

And, in her Cooper's colours drest,
The scene shall live for ever.

The

And

rain is descending; the wind rises loud;

the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud;

'Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye

Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Grey!

There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his mane

Shall marshal your march through the darkness and rain.

The drawbridge has dropp'd, the bugle has blown ;

One pledge is to quaff yet-then mount and begone!To their honour and peace, that shall rest with the slain; To their health and their glee, that see Teviot again!

INSCRIPTION

FOR THE MONUMENT OF THE REV. GEORGE SCOTT.

(1830.)

To youth, to age, alike, this tablet pale Tells the brief moral of its tragic tale. Art thou a parent? Reverence this bier, The parents' fondest hopes lie buried

here.

Art thou a youth, prepared on life to start,

With opening talents and a generous heart,

Fair hopes and flattering prospects all thine own?

Lo! here their end-a monumental stone.

But let submission tame each sorrow

ing thought,

LINES ON FORTUNE, A SKILFUL

MECHANIST.

(1831.)

FORTUNE, my Foe, why dost thou frown on me?

And will my Fortune never better be?

Wilt thou, I say, for ever breed my pain?

And wilt thou ne'er return my joys again?

(No! let my ditty be henceforth-) Fortune, my Friend, how well thou favourest me!

A kinder Fortune man did never see!

Thou propp'st my thigh, thou ridd'st my knee of pain,

fight was fought.

again.

WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDIN

BURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS.

P. 701.

'Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms?

Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest.

Had we a difference with some petty isle,
Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks,
The taking in of some rebellious lord,

Or making head against a slight commotion,
After a day of blood, peace might be argued :
But where we grapple for the land we live on,
The liberty we hold more dear than life,
The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours,
And, with those, swords that know no end of battle-
Those men, beside themselves, allow no neighbour,
Those minds, that, where the day is, claim inherit-
ance,

And, where the sun makes ripe the fruit, their harvest,
And, where they march, but measure out more ground
To add to Rome--

It must not be-No! as they are our foes,
Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing;
But in our hands our swords. The hardy Roman,
That thinks to graft himself into my stock,
Must first begin his kindred under ground,
And be allied in ashes.'

Bonduca.

This War-Song was written during the apprehension of an invasion'. The corps of volunteers to which it was addressed was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Honourable LieutenantColonel Dundas 2. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: 'Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et Posteros cogitate.' 1812.

1 The song originally appeared in the Scots Magazine for 1802.-LOCKHART.

a Now Viscount Melville (1831).

FAREWELL TO MACKENZIE.
P. 722.

The original verses are arranged to a beautiful Gaelic air, of which the chorus is adapted to the double pull upon the oars of a galley, and which is therefore distinct from the ordinary jorrams, or boat-songs, They were composed by the Family Bard upon the departure of the Earl of Seaforth, who was obliged to take refuge in Spain, after an unsuccessful effort at insurrection in favour of the Stuart family, in the year 1718.

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.
P. 731.

This is a very ancient pibroch belonging to Clan MacDonald, and supposed to refer to the expedition of Donald Balloch, who, in a launched from the Isles with a consider

force, invaded Lochaber, and at Inverlochy defeated and put to flight the Earls of Mar and Caithness, though at the head of an army superior to his own. The words of the set, theme, or melody, to which the pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic:'Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piobaireachd Dhonuil Dhuidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi.' 'The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, The pipe-summons of Donald the Black, The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering. place at Inverlochy.'

MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.
P. 744.

Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with à belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, 'Cha till ni tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon, I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!' The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emi. grants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.

I.

But on his fore-horse his wench he

carries,

And away to Tewin, away, away!

The butler was quick, and the ale he did tap,

The maidens did make the chamber full gay;

The servants did give me a fuddling cup, And I did carry 't away, away.

The smith of the town his liquor so took,

That he was persuaded that the

ground look'd blue; And I dare boldly be sworn on a book,

Such smiths as he there's but a few.

A posset was made, and the women did sip,

And simpering said, they could eat

no more;

Full many a maiden was laid on the lip,

I'll say no more, but give o'er, (give o'er). (APPENDIX TO GENERAL PREFACEapud QUEENHOO HALL.)