Imatges de pàgina
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Until he came to that dreary place,

Which did all in ruins lie.

He gazed on the walls, so scathed with fire,

With many a bitter groan-
And there was aware of a Gray Friar,

Resting him on a stone.
“Now, Christ thee save!” said the Gray Brother;

“Some pilgrim thou seemest to be.” But in sore amaze did Lord Albert gaze,

Nor answer again made he.
"O come ye from east, or come ye from west,

Or bring reliques from over the sea ?
Or come ye from the shrine of St James the divine,

Or St John of Beverley?"-
“I come not from the shrine of St James the divine,

Nor bring reliques from over the sea;
I bring but a curse from our father, the Pope,

Which for ever will cling to me. “Now, woful pilgrim, say not so !

Bút kneel thee down to me,
And shrive thee so clean of thy deadly sin,

That absolved thou mayst be."-
* And who art thou, thou Gray Brother,

That I should shrive to thee, When He, to whom are given the keys of earth and

heaven,
Has no power to pardon me?”-
" O I am sent from a distant clime,

Five thousand miles away,
And all to absolve a foul, foul crime,

Done here 'twixt night and day.”
The pilgrim kneeld him on the sand,

And thus began his sayeWhen on his neck an ice-cold hand

Did that Gray Brother laye.

WA R-SONG

OF THE

ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS

" 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 inheritance,
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,

THE following 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 Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas." 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.

WAR-SONG.
To horse! to horse! the standard flies,

The bugles sound the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,

Arouse ye, one and all!

Froin high Dunedin's towers we come,

A band of brothers true;
Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;

We boast the red and blue.a
Though tamely couch'd to Gallia's frown

Dull Holland's tardy train;
Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,

And, foaming, gnaw the chain;
Oh! had they mark'd the avenging calls

Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour, desperate grown,

Sought freedom in the grave!
Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,

In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land

Come pouring as a flood,
The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,

And set that night in blood.
For golå let Gallia's legions fight,

Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our king, to fence our law,

Nor shall their edge be vain.
If ever breath of British gale

Shall fan the tri-color,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,

Pollute our happy shore,

Then farewell hoine! and farewell friends!
Adieu, each tender tie!

a The royal colours. The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 10th August 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper

with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice, by which the Alps, once the seat of the most vir. tuous and free people upon the Continent, have at length been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved.-1812.

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APPENDIX,

CONSISTING OF

NOTES TO THE POETRY.

NOTES TO

THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL

MARMION.

THE LADY OF THE LAKE.

THE VISION OF DON RODERICK.

ROKEBY.

THE LORD OF THE ISLES.

GLENFINLAS-EVE OF ST. JOHN-CADYOW

CASTLE-GRAY BROTHER.

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