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The homes of my kinsmen are blazing to heaven,

The bright star of morning has blush'd at the view; The moon has stood still on the verge of the even,

To wipe from her pale cheek the tint of the dew;
For the dew it lies red on the vales of Lochaber,
It sprinkles the cot, and it flows in the pen.
The pride of my country is fallen for ever!

Death, hast thou no shaft for old Callum-a-Glen?

The sun, in his glory, has look'd on our sorrow,
The stars have wept blood over hamlet and lea:
O, is there no day-spring for Scotland? no morrow
Of bright renovation for souls of the free?
Yes: one above all has beheld our devotion,

Our valour and faith are not hid from his ken.
The day is abiding of stern retribution,

On all the proud foes of old Callum-a-Glen.

"It is a pity," says Mr. Hogg, "that I have too much hand in these songs from the Gaelic, to speak of them as I feel; and though this is indebted to me for the rhyme, I could take it against any piece of modern poetry." Such is the note which accompanies this song in the Jacobite Relics. It is no gracious thing to question a poet's judgment in a matter of verse. I cannot say that I am captivated with this Highland song so much as Mr. Hogg is; the language is cumbrous; it wants the air of genuine simplicity which touches me so much in Burns's Lass of Inverness. It contains no new images of heroic fortitude, or pathetic suffering or despair.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.

Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valour long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground.
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar
His all become the prey of war,
Bethinks him of his babes and wife,
Then smites his breast, and curses life.
Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks,
Where once they fed their wanton flocks;
Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ;
Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it then in every clime,
Through the wide-spreading waste of time,
Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise,
Still shone with undiminish'd blaze?

Thy towering spirit now is broke,

Thy neck is bended to the yoke:

What foreign arms could never quell, rage and rancour fell.

By civil

The rural pipe and merry lay

No more shall cheer the happy day;
No social scenes of gay delight
Beguile the dreary winter night:
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
And nought is heard but sounds of wo;
While the pale phantoms of the slain
Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

Oh, baneful curse! oh, fatal morn,
Accurs'd to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their fathers stood,
The parent shed his children's blood;
Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victor's soul was not appeas'd;
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murdering steel.

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread.
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,

She views the shades of night descend;

And, stretch'd beneath the inclement skies,

Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

Whilst the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat,
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow.
Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!

Smollett was a Jacobite, but it required little party spirit to inspire a song which gives a moving picture of domestic desolation and human sorrow. The Duke of Cumberland nearly fulfilled the prediction ascribed to Alexander Peden; "The day will come, when men may ride an hundred miles in Scotland, nor see a reeking house, nor hear a crowing cock!"-This moving song was made on the ravages of the Duke of Cumberland, in 1746. The eastern Cameronians, during the rebellion of 1715, acted a curious but characteristic part. They armed and advanced upon Dumfries, but seemed uncertain whether they would fight for the "man who sought the temporal crown, or the man who wore it." They refused to acknowledge any king but Jesus, or to mingle with any people who were not covenanted-they prayed, preached, disputed, and dispersed.

VOL. III.

R

THE WAES OF SCOTLAND.

When I left thee, bonny Scotland,
O fair wert thou to see !

And blithe as a bonny bride i' the morn,
When she maun wedded be.
When I came back to thee, Scotland,
Upon a May-morn fair,

A bonny lass sat at our town end,
A kaming her yellow hair.

Oh hey! oh hey! sung the bonny lass,
Oh hey, and wae is me!
There's siccan sorrow in Scotland,

As een did never see.

Oh hey, oh hey, for my father auld!

Oh hey, for my mither dear!

And my heart will burst for the bonny lad Wha left me lanesome here.

I hadna gane in my ain Scotland
Mae miles than twa or three,
When I saw the head o' my ain father
Borne up the gate to me.

A traitor's head! and, A traitor's head!

Loud bawl'd a bloody loon;

But I drew frae the sheath my glaive o' weir, And strack the reaver down.

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