to assail

Rost?

May not these bald disjointed lines

suffice,

Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling dice

While down the cabin skylight lessening shine

The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine?

Imagined, while down Mousa's desert bay

Our well-trimm'd vessel urged her nimble way,

While to the freshening breeze she lean'd her side,

If your grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is not,

You may ask at a namesake of ours, Mr. Scott

(He's not from our clan, though his merits deserve it,

But springs, I'm informed, from the Scotts of Scotstarvet);

He question'd the folks who beheld it with eyes,

But they differ'd confoundedly as to its size.

For instance, the modest and diffident

swore

seldom are taken;

It is January two years, the Zetland folks say,

Since they saw the last Kraken in Scalloway bay;

He lay in the offing a fortnight or more,

But the devil a Zetlander put from the shore,

by mail?

The season, I'm told, is nigh over, but

still

I could get you one fit for the lake at Bowhill.

Indeed, as to whales, there's no need to be thrifty,

Since one day last fortnight two hundred and fifty,

Awake in thy chamber, thou sweet

southland gale!

But no bard was there left in the land of the Gael

and in love,

with the blast;

cares of a Chief,

Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left,

Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft,

To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail,

That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail!

WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN,

HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN.

(1815.)

(From the Gaelic.)

A WEARY month has wander'd o'er Since last we parted on the shore; Heaven that I saw thee, love, once more,

Safe on that shore again.! 'Twas valiant Lachlan gave the wordLachlan, of many a galley lord: He call'd his kindred bands on board,

And launch'd them on the main.

Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone--
Clan-Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil :
For wide is heard the thundering fray,
The rout, the ruin, the dismay,
When from the twilight glens away

Clan-Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound Our banner'd bagpipes' maddening sound;

Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round

Shall shake their inmost cell. Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays! The fools might face the lightning's blaze

As wisely and as well!

SAINT CLOUD.

(Paris, September 5, 1815.)

SOFTspread the southern summer night Her veil of darksome blue;

Ten thousand stars combined to light The terrace of Saint Cloud.

The evening breezes gently sigh'd,
Like breath of lover true,
Bewailing the deserted pride

And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud.

The drum's deep roll was heard afar,
The bugle wildly blew
Good-night to Hulan and Hussar,
That garrison Saint Cloud.

The startled Naiads from the shade
With broken urns withdrew,
And silenced was that proud cascade,
The glory of Saint Cloud.

We sate upon its steps of stone,

Nor could its silence rue, When waked, to music of our own,

The echoes of Saint Cloud.

Slow Seine might hear each lovely note
Fall light as summer dew,
While through the moonless air they
float,

Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud.

And sure a melody more sweet
His waters never knew,
Though music's self was wont to meet
With Princes at Saint Cloud.

Nor then, with more delighted ear,

The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear Our songstress at Saint Cloud.

Few happy hours poor mortals pass,-Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint Cloud.

THE DANCE OF DEATH.
(1815.)

NIGHT and morning were at meeting

Over Waterloo;

Cocks had sung their earliest greeting;
Faint and low they crew,
For no paly beam yet shone
On the heights of Mount Saint John;
Tempest-clouds prolong'd the sway
Of timeless darkness over day;
Whirlwind, thunder-clap, and shower,
Mark'd it a predestined hour.

But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower,

And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell.

Lone on the outskirts of the host
The weary sentinel held post,
And heard, through darkness far aloof,
The frequent clang of courser's hoof,
Where held the cloak'd patrol their

course,

Flash'd the sheets of levin-light;

Muskets, glancing lightnings back,
Show'd the dreary bivouac

Where the soldier lay,

Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain,

Wishing dawn of morn again,

ing horse.

But there are sounds in Allan's ear
Patrol nor sentinel may hear,

And sights before his eye aghast
Invisible to them have pass'd,

When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France,

'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and

shower

Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear,

Presaging death and ruin near

Among the sons of men ;Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day,

Had follow'd stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel,

Valiant Fassiefern.

Through steel and shot he leads no

more,

Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore

Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel

dance,

And doom'd the future slain, Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard,

When Scotland's James his march prepared

For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored

The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand,

With gestures wild and dread : The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm,

Saw through their faint and shadowy form

The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead: