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.

330

The Sultaun saw him on a holiday,
Which is with Paddy still a jolly day:
When mass is ended, and his load of sins
Confessed, and Mother Church hath 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. 'By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Solimaun, 'That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt,

But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.'

340

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 favor 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 strained
Dare hardly hope your favor gained.
She who from sister climes has sought
The ancient land where Wallace fought-
Land long renowned 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.
'T is 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.

MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL AD

DRESS

ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE

Mr. Kemble recited these lines in the dress of Macbeth, which he had just been acting, March 29, 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, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour forever past, And that those valued plaudits are my last. Why should we part, while still some powers remain,

That in your service strive not yet in vain? Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply,

And sense of duty fire the fading eye;

And all the wrongs of age remain subdued

Beneath the burning glow of gratitude?
Ah, no! the taper, wearing to its close,
Oft for a space in fitful lustre glows;
But all too soon the transient gleam is
past,

It cannot be renewed, and will not last;
Even duty, zeal, and gratitude can wage
But short-lived conflict with the frosts of
age.

O favored Land! renowned for arts and arms,

For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line,

What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is played, my knell is

rung,

When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue;

And all that you can hear, or I can tell,

YOU WELL.

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL

AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run'

'It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth,

namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland, all the work of the poet's hand.' Lockhart's Life, Chapter xxxix.

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 ruined pride. The quiet lake, the baliny 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 warped and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye ? The harp of strained and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply?

Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighboring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.'

WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguered Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marched from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan 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
Doomed to feel unhallowed 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,
Spurned by steeds with bloody mane,
Slaughtered 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, O miserere, Domine!

Bangor! o'er the murder wail!
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shattered towers and broken arch
Long recalled the woful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domine!

MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT

AIR-Cha till mi tuille'

This Lament was contributed by Scott to Albyn's Anthology in 1818, with this preface: 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 a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon," 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 emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.'