whom little is known beyond that prodigious effort which produced his present honours, and is, perhaps, one of the most singular instances of its kind which the literature of any country exhibits. His labours as an amanuensis were undertaken during the time of pestilence, in 1558. The dread of infection had induced him to retire into solitude, and under such circumstances he had the energy to form and execute the plan of saving the literature of the whole nation; and, undisturbed by

the general mourning for the dead, and general fears of the living, to devote himself to the task of collecting and recording the triumphs of human genius in the poetry of his age and country-thus, amid the wreck of all that was mortal, employing himself in preserving the lays by which immortality is at once given to others, and obtained

for the writer himself. He informs us of some of the

numerous difficulties he had to contend with in this self

imposed task. The volume containing his labours, depoEdinburgh, is no less than eight hundred pages in length, and very neatly and closely written, containing nearly all the ancient poetry of Scotland now known to exist.Quarterly Review. ART. Pitcairn's Ancient Criminal Trials. Feb. 1831.

sited in the Library of the Faculty of Advocates at

"And wha may ye be," gin ye speer, "That brings your auld-warld clavers here?" Troth, if there's onybody near

That kens the roads,

I'll haud ye Burgundy to beer,

He kens Meg Dodds.

I came a piece frac west o' Currie ;
And, since I see you're in a hurry,
Your patience I'll nae langer worry,
But be sae crouse
As speak a word for ane Will Murray,
That keeps this house.

Plays are auld-fashion'd things, in truth,
And ye've seen wonders mair uncouth;
Yet actors shouldna suffer drouth,

Or want of dramock,

Although they speak but wi' their mouth,
Not with their stamock.

But ye tak care of a' folk's pantry;
And surely to hae stooden sentry
Ower this big house, (that's far frae rent-free,)
For a lone sister,

Is claims as gude's to be a ventri--
How'st ca'd-loquister.

Weel, sirs, gude'en, and have a care
The bairns mak fun o' Meg nae mair;
For gin they do, she tells you fair,

And without failzie,

As sure as ever ye sit there,

She'll tell the Bailie.

Spite of three wedlocks so completely curst,
They rose in ill from bad to worse, and worst,
In spite of errors-I dare not say more,
For Duncan Targe lays hand on his claymore.
In spite of all, however, humours vary,
There is a talisman in that word Mary,
That unto Scottish bosoms all and some
Is found the genuine open sesamum!
In history, ballad, poetry, or novel,
It charms alike the castle and the hovel,
Even you-forgive me-who, demure and shy.
Gorge not each bait, nor stir at every fly,
Must rise to this, else in her ancient reign
The Rose of Scotland has survived in vain.

THE DEATH OF KEELDAR.

18.8.

PERCY or Percival Rede of Trochend, in Redesdale, Northumberland, is celebrated in tradition as a huntsman, and a soldier. He was. upon two occasions, singularly unfortunate; once, when an arrow, which he had discharged at a deer, killed his celebrated dog Keeldar; and again, when, being on a hunting party, he was betrayed into the hands of a clan called Crossar, by whom he was murdered. Mr. Cooper's painting of the first of these incidents, suggested the following stanzas.

UP rose the sun, o'er moor and mead;
Up with the sun rose Percy Rede;
Brave Keeldar, from his couples freed,

Career'd along the lea;

The palfrey sprung with sprightly bound,
As if to match the gamesome hound;
His horn the gallant huntsman wound:
They were a jovial three!

Man, hound, or horse, of higher fame,
To wake the wild deer never came,
Since Alnwick's Earl pursued the game
On Cheviot's rueful day;
Keeldar was matchless in his speed,
Than Tarras, ne'er was stancher steed,
A peerless archer, Percy Rede:

And right dear friends were they.

The chase engross'd their joys and woes,
Together at the dawn they rose,
Together shared the noon's repose,

By fountain or by stream;
And oft, when evening skies were red,
The heather was their common bed,
Where each, as wildering fancy led,

Still hunted in his dream.

Now is the thrilling moment near,
Of sylvan hope and sylvan fear,
Yon thicket holds the harbour'd deer,
The signs the hunters know ;-
With eyes of flame, and quivering ears,
The brake sagacious Keeldar nears;
The restless palfrey paws and rears;
The archer strings his bow.

The game's afoot!-Halloo! Halloo! Hunter, and horse, and hound pursue ;But woe the shaft that erring flew

That e'er it left the string! And ill betide the faithless yew! The stag bounds scatheless o'er the dew, And gallant Keeldar's life-blood true

Has drench'd the grey-goose wing.

The noble hound-he dies, he dies, Death, death has glazed his fixed eyes, Stiff on the bloody heath he lies,

Without a groan or quiver. Now day may break and bugle sound, And whoop and hollow ring around, And o'er his couch the stag may bound, But Keeldar sleeps for ever.

Dilated nostrils, staring eyes,
Mark the poor palfrey's mute surprise,
He knows not that his comrade dies,
Nor what is death-but still
His aspect hath expression drear
Of grief and wonder, mix'd with fear,
Like startled children when they hear
Some mystic tale of ill.

But he that bent the fatal bow,
Can well the sum of evil know,
And o'er his favourite, bending low,

In speechless grief recline;

Can think he hears the senseless clay,
In unreproachful accents say,
"The hand that took my life away,
Dear master, was it thine?

"And if it be, the shaft be bless'd, Which sure some erring aim address'd, Since in your service prized, caress'd,

I in your service die;

And you may have a fleeter hound,
To match the dun-deer's merry bound,
But by your couch will ne'er be found
So true a guard as I."

And to his last stout Percy rued The fatal chance, for when he stood 'Gainst fearful odds in deadly feud,

And fell amid the fray,

E'en with his dying voice he cried,
"Had Keeldar but been at my side,
Your treacherous ambush had been spied-
I had not died to-day!"'

Remembrance of the erring bow
Long since had join'd the tides which flow,
Conveying human bliss and woe

Down dark oblivion's river;
But Art can Time's stern doom arrest,
And snatch his spoil from Lethe's breast,
And, in her Cooper's colours drest,

The scene shall live for ever.

THE FORAY.

SET TO MUSIC BY JOHN WHITEFIELD,

MUS. DOC. CAM.

1830.

THE last of our steers on the board has been spread,

And the last flask of wine in our goblet is red;

Up! up, my brave kinsmen! belt swords and begone,

There are dangers to dare, and there's spoil to be won.

The eyes, that so lately mix'd glances with

ours,

For a space must be dim, as they gaze from the towers,

And strive to distinguish, through tempest and gloom,

The prance of the steed, and the toss of the plume.

The rain is descending; the wind rises loud; And the moon her red beacon has veil'd with a cloud;

"Tis the better, my mates! for the warder's dull eye

Shall in confidence slumber, nor dream we are nigh.

Our steeds are impatient! I hear my blithe Grey!

There is life in his hoof-clang, and hope in his neigh;

Like the flash of a meteor, the glance of his