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| “ The reader may be interested by comparing with this horn, which the prophet pointed out to the horse-dealer as ballad the author's prose version of part of its legend, as containing the means of dissolving the spell. The man in given in one of the last works of his pen. He says, in the confusion took the horn and attempted to wind it. The horses Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, 1830 :- Thomas of instantly started in their stalls, stamped, and shook their Ercildowne, during his retirement, has been supposed, from bridles, the men arose and clashed their armour, and the time to time, to be levying forces to take the field in some mortal, terrified at the tumult he had excited, dropped the crisis of his country's fate. The story has often been told of a horn from his hand. A voice like that of a giant, louder eveu daring horse-jockey having sold a black horse to a man of ve than the tumult around, pronounced these words :nerable and antique appearance, who appointed the remarkable hillock upon Eildon hills, called the Lucken-hare, as the • Woe to the coward that ever he was born, place where, at twelve o'clock at night, he should receive the That did not draw the sword before he blew the horn. price. He came, his money was paid in ancient coin, and he was in vited by his customer to view his residence. The trader A whirlwind expelled the horse-dealer from the cavern, the in horses followed his guide in the deepest astonishment entrance to which he could never again find. A moral might through several long ranges of stalls, in cach of which a horse be perhaps extracted from the leger d, namely, that it is better btood motionless, while an armed warrior lay equally still at to be armed against danger before bidding it defiance." the charger's feet. "All these men,' said the wizard in a whisper, will awaken at the battle of Sheriff'muir.' At the 2 This celebrated horn is still in the possession of the chief remity of ila extraordinary depot hung a sword

he Har family, oral Polwarth.


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The Warden's daughters in Lochwood sate,
Were all both fair and gay,

The forest of Glenmore is drear,
All save the Lady Margaret,

It is all of black pine and the dark oak-tree; And she was wan and wae.

And the midnight wind, to the mountain deer.

Is whistling the forest lullaby:
The sister, Jean, had a full fair skin,

The moon looks through the drifting storm,
And Grace was bauld and braw;

But the troubled lake reflects not her form, 1 “At Linton, in Roxburghishire, there is a circle of stones leader was cut in the turf, and the arrangement of the lester burrounding a smooth plot of turf, called the 7'ryst, or place announced to his followers the course which he had takon"of appointment, which tradition avers to have been the ren Introcluction to the Minstrelsy, p. 185. Rozvous of the neighbouring warriors. The name of the

Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years — “ When targets clash’d, and bugles l'ing, And blades round warriors heads were flung, The foremost of the band were we, And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!"



In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and

of a most umiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendunt during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland.

I climb’d the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleam'd misty and


All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was

bending, And Catchedicam its left verge was defending, One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I mark'd the sad spot where the wanderer

had died.

Dark green was that spot ʼmid the brown mountaiu

heather, Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretch'd in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandon’d to weather, Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantiegs

olay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended,

And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber When the wind waved his garment, how oft didut

thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou num.

ber, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, oh, was it meet, that-no requiem read o'er


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 oak-
Thai singles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock ;-
There 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 barps were strung,
When Lochlin plow'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.2

“ 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!
Mute 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,3 first who rolld his car
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, ot' 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!
For 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 tinkling ears,

1 The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lhamdearg, or Red-hand.

2 Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland recrired two bloody defeats.

3 The Galgacus of Tacitus

No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, 1

IV. And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before him— And oh, Dinas Emlinn! thy daughters so fair, Unhonour'd the Pilgrim from life should depart? Who heave the white bosom, and wave the dark hair;

What tuneful enthusiast shall worship their eye, When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded, When half of their charms with Cadwallon shall diei

The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall; With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

V. And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: Then adieu, silver Teivi ! I quit thy loved scene, Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are To join the dim choir of the bards who have been; gleaming ;

With Lewarch, and Meilor, and Merlin the Old, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beaming, And sage Taliessin, high harping to hold. Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a Chief of the people should fall.


And adieu, Dinas Emlinn! still green be thy shades, But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

Unconquer'd thy warriors, and matchless thy maids' To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb, ' And thou, whose faint warblings my weakness can tell, When, wilder'd, he drops from some cliff huge in Farewell, my loved Harp! my last treasure, farewell!

And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.

The Norman Worse shoe.


The Dying Bard.'

AIR-The War-Song of the Nsen of Glamorgan.


Air-Dalyılz Ganguen.

The Welsh tradition bears, that a Bard, on his death

bed, demanded his harp, and played the air to which these verses are adapted; requesting that it might be performed at his funeral.

The Welsh, inhabiting a mountainous country, and pos

sessing only an inferior breed of horses, were usually unable to encounter the shock of the Anglo-Norman cavalry. Occasionally, however, they were successful. in repelling the invaders; and the following verses are supposed to celebrate a defeat of Clare, Earl of Striguil and Pembroke, and of NEVILLE, Buron of Chepstow, Lords-Marchers of Monmouthshire. Rymny is a stream which divides the counties of Monmouth and Glamorgan : Caerphili, the scene of the supposed battle, is a vale upon its banks, dignified by the ruins of u very ancient castle.

Dinas EMLINN, lament; for the moment is nigh,
When mute in the woodlands thine echoes shall die:
No more by sweet Teivi Cadwallon shall rave,
And mix his wild notes with the wild dashing wave.

In spring and in autumn thy glories of shade
Unhonour'd shall flourish, unhonour'd shall fade;
For soon shall be lifeless the eye and the tongue,
That view'd them with rapture, with rapture that sung.

RED glows the forge in Striguil's bounds,
And hammers din, and anvil sounds,
And armourers, with iron toil,
Barb many a steed for oattle's broil.
Foul fall the hand which bends the steel
Around the courser's thundering heel,
That e'er shall dint a sable wound
On fair Glamorgan's velvet ground !

Thy sons, Dinas Emlinn, may march in their pride,
And chase the proud Saxon from Prestatyn's side;
But where is the harp shall give life to their name ?
And where is the bard shall give heroes their fame?

From Chepstow's towers, ere dawn of mom).
Was heard afar the bugle-horn;
And forth, in banded pomp and pride,
Stout Clare and fiery Neville ride.
They swore, their banners broad should gleam,
Iu crimson light, on Rymny's strcain;

1 This and the following were written for Mr. George Thomson's Welsh Airs, and are contained in his Select Melodies, VO.

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