But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb:

Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through channel,

Hardships and danger despising for fame,

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.

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.

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.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they

did rattle,

And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,
Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar,
And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may
glisten;

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.

And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers,

When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e;

How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea.

Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I ponder'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.

HUNTING SONG.

WAKEN, lords and ladies gay,
On the mountain dawns the day,
All the jolly chase is here,

With hawk, and horse, and nunting spear;
Hounds are in their couples yelling,
Hawks are whistling, horns are knelling,
Merrily, merrily, mingle they,
"Waken, lords and ladies gay."

Waken, lords and ladies gay,

The mist 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.

THE BARD'S INCANTATION.

WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804.

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:

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

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,

The voice of the Bard in fitful mood;

His song was louder than the blast,

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The spectre with his bloody hand,* Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time is meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t

"Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;

Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mate are ye now?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

"O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach, first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.

"By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the mighty strain to tell!
Fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"-

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

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege lord said,
"The heart that has for honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid ;--
My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave,
She fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot
Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine:
And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there,
Cried, "Honour'd be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair!"

THE TROUBADOUR.

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,

Beneath his lady's window came,

And thus he sung his last good morrow:

My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my truelove's bower;
Gayly for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel burden still he sung:
"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my lady's bower;
Resolved for love and fame to fight,
I come, a gallant Troubadour."

E'en when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay : "My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung th' exulting stave: "My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME.*
BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING.

THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth;
The north for ance has bang'd the south;
The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,
Carle, now the king's come.

CHORUS.

Carle, now the king's come!
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, now the king's come!

Auld England held him lang and fast;
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;
But Scotland's turn has come at last-
Carle, now the king's come!

Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray,
Thought never to have seen the day;
He's been a weary time away-

But, Carle, now the king's come!

She's skirling frae the Castle Hill,
'The carline's voice is grown sae shrill,
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,

Carle, now the king's come!

"Up, bairns," she cries, " baith great and sma', And busk ye for the weapon shaw!

Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!

Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, from Newbattle's* ancient spires, Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, And match the mettle of your sires,

Carle, now the king's come!

"You're welcome hame, my Montague ! Bring in your hand the young Buccleugh; I'm missing some that I may rue,

Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Haddington, the kind and gay,
You've graced my causeway mony a day;
I'll weep the cause if you should stay,
Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, premier duke,‡ and carry doun,
Frae yonder craig§ his ancient croun;
It's had a lang sleep and a soun'—

But, Carle, now the king's come

"Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud;Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood, Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids ;

Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true,
Girt with the sword that Minden knew;
We have ower few such lairds as you--
Carle, now the king's come!

"King Arthur's grown a common crier,
He's heard in Fife and far Cantire,-
Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire!"
Carle, now the king's come!
"Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass
Between Tantallon and the Bass!'-
Calton,** get on your keeking-glass,

Carle, now the king's come!"

The carline stopp'd; and sure I am,
For very glee had ta'en a dwam,
But Oman help'd her to a dram.-
Cogie, now the king's come!

Cogie, now the king's come!
Cogie, now the king's come!
I'se be four and ye's be toom,
Cogie, now the king's come!

iously looking for the royal squadron.

JAMES MONTGOMERY was born at Irvine, Ayrshire, Scotland, November 4, 1771. His parents, who belonged to the sect of Moravians, placed him at school near Leeds, and went as missionaries to the West Indies, where they died. After two unprofitable years at the school, whose discipline was too strict for him, Montgomery ran away. He spent four years in various employments, mainly as clerk, and then (1793) was engaged in the office of the Sheffield Register, for which he soon began to write political articles. In 1794 he started the Sheffield Iris, which he continued to edit till 1825. At the outset of his editorial career he twice suffered imprisonment-first of three months (1795) for printing a ballad which was pronounced sedi

tious, and next of six months (1796) for publishing an account of a riot in Sheffield. In 1835 he received a government pension of £150. He died in Sheffield, April 30, 1854. Montgomery published a small volume of poems early in life; but it met with no great success. "The Wanderer of Switzerland" was published in 1806, "The West Indies" in 1809," The World before the Flood" in 1812, and "The Pelican Island, and Other Poems" in 1827. A collected edition of his minor poems was issued in 1851, and of his hymns in 1853. The last named will probably prove the longest lived of all his works. Some of them are sung wherever the language is spoken, and are loved for their rare quality of mingled picturesqueness and piety.

MY COUNTRY.

THERE is a land of every land the pride,
Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside,
Where brighter suns dispense serener light,
And milder moons imparadise the night;
A land of beauty, virtue, valor, truth,
Time-tutored age, and love-exalted youth:
The wandering mariner, whose eye explores
The wealthiest isles, the most enchanting shores,
Views not a realm so bountiful and fair,
Nor breathes the spirit of a purer air.
In every clime, the magnet of his soul,
Touched by remembrance, trembles to that pole;
For in this land of Heaven's peculiar race,
The heritage of Nature's noblest grace,
There is a spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest,
Where man, creation's tyrant, casts aside,
His sword and sceptre, pageantry and pride,
While in his softened looks benignly blend
The sire, the son, the husband, brother, friend.
Here woman reigns; the mother, daughter, wife,
Strew with fresh flowers the narrow way of life:
In the clear heaven of her delightful eye,
An angel guard of love and graces lie;
Around her knees domestic duties meet,
And fireside pleasures gambol at her feet.
"Where shall that land, that spot of earth be
found?"

Art thou a man?-a patriot ?-look around;
Oh thou shalt find, howe'er thy footsteps roam,
That land thy country, and that spot thy home!

Man through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,

Deems his own land of every land the pride, Beloved by Heaven o'er all the world beside; His home the spot of earth supremely blest, A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

ROBERT BURNS.

WHAT bird in beauty, flight, or song,
Can with the bard compare,

Who sang as sweet, and soared as strong,
As ever child of air?

His plume, his note, his form, could Burns
For whim or pleasure change;
He was not one, but all by turns,
With transmigration strange :

The blackbird, oracle of sprig,
When flowed his moral lay;
The swallow, wheeling on the wing,
Capriciously at play;

The humming-bird, from bloom to bloom
Inhaling heavenly balm;
The raven in the tempest's gloom;
The halcyon in the calm;

In "auld Kirk Alloway" the owl,
At witching time of night;
By "Bonny Doon" the earliest fowl
That carolled to the light.

He was the wren amid the grove, When in his homely vein;

There take thy stand, my spirit-spread The world of shadows at thy feet; And mark how calmly overhead

The stars, like saints in glory, meet. While hid in solitude sublime,

Methinks I muse on Nature's tomb,
And hear the passing foot of Time
Step through the silent gloom.

All in a moment, crash on crash,
From precipice to precipice
An avalanche's ruins dash
Down to the nethermost abyss,
Invisible; the ear alone

Pursues the uproar till it dies;
Echo to echo, groan for groan,
From deep to deep replies.

Silence again the darkness seals,
Darkness that may be felt; but soon
The silver-clouded east reveals

The midnight spectre of the moon.
In half-eclipse she lifts her horn,

Yet o'er the host of heaven supreme
Brings the faint semblance of a morn,
With her awakening beam.

Ah! at her touch, these Alpine heights
Unreal mockeries appear;
With blacker shadows, ghastlier lights,
Emerging as she climbs the sphere;
A crowd of apparitions pale!

I hold my breath in chill suspense-
They seem so exquisitely frail-
Lest they should vanish hence.

I breathe again, I freely breathe;
Thee, Leman's lake, once more I trace,
Like Dian's crescent far beneath,
As beautiful as Dian's face:
Pride of the land that gave me birth!
All that thy waves reflect I love,
Where heaven itself, brought down to earth,
Looks fairer than above.

Safe on thy banks again I stray;

The trance of poesy is o'er, And I am here at dawn of day,

Gazing on mountains as before,

Where all the strange mutations wrought
Were magic feats of my own mind;
For, in that fairy land of thought,
Whate'er I seek, I find.

Yet, O ye everlasting hills!

Buildings of God, not made with hands, Whose word performs whate'er He wills, Whose word, though ye shall perish, stands; Can there be eyes that look on you,

Till tears of rapture make them dim,
Nor in his works the Maker view,
Then lose his works in Him?

By me, when I behold Him not,
Or love Him not when I behold,

Be all I ever knew forgot

My pulse stand still, my heart grow cold; Transformed to ice, 'twixt earth and sky, On yonder cliff my form be seen, That all may ask, but none reply, What my offence hath been.