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Stout Russia's Hemp, so surely twined Around our wreath we'll draw that, And he that would the cord unbind, Shall have it for his gra-vat!

Or, if to choke sae puir a sot, Your pity scorn to thraw that, The Devil's elbow be his lot,

Where he may sit and claw that. In spite of slight, in spite of might,

In spite of brags, an' a' that, The lads that battled for the right, Have won the day, an' a' that!

There's ae bit spot I had forgot,
America they ca' that!
A coward plot her rats had got
Their father's flag to gnaw that:
Now see it fly top-gallant high,

Atlantic winds shall blaw that,
And Yankee loon, beware your croun,
There 's kames in hand to claw that!

For on the land, or on the sea, Where'er the breezes blaw that, The British Flag shall bear the grie, And win the day for a' that!




U, DREAD was the time, and more dreadful the omen, When the brave on Marengo lay slaughter'd in vain, And beholding broad Europe bow'd down by her foe


PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave


To take for his country the safety of shame; O, then in her triumph remember his merit, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Round the husbandman's head, while he traces the furrow,

The mists of the winter may mingle with rain,

"On the 30th of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine,2 and Mr. Duff,3 Commissioners, along with Mr. (now Sir) Walter Scott, and the writer, visited the Lighthouse; the Commissioners being then on one of their voyages of Inspection, noticed in the Introduction. They breakfasted in the Library, when Sir Walter, at the entreaty of the party, upon inscribing his name in the Album, added these interesting Lines"-STEVENSON's Account of the Bell-Rock Lighthouse.

But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;

And their jubilee-shout shall be soften'd with sadness, While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In toils for our country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations ascended,
To light the long darkness of doubt and despair;
The storms he endured in our Britain's December,
The perils his wisdom foresaw and o'ercame,
In her glory's rich harvest snall Britain remember,
And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction,
Is deaf to the tale of our victories won,
And to sounds the most dear to paternal affection,
The shout of his people applauding his Son;
By his firmness unmoved in success and disaster,

By his long reign of virtue, remember his claim! With our tribute to PITT join the praise of his Master Though a tear stain the goblet that flows to his

Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad mea

The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright trea

The wisdom that plann'd, and the zeal that obey'd Fill WELLINGTON's cup till it beam like his glory, Forget not our own brave DALHOUSIE and GREME; A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their story,

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame.

1824. Scott's Diary of the Voyage is now published in the 4th volume of his Life.

The late Robert Hamilton, Esq., Advocate, long Sheriff. Depute of Lanarkshire, and afterwards one of the Principal Clerks of Session in Scotland-died in 1831.

2 Afterwards Lord Kinnedder.

3 The late Adam Duff, Esq. Sheriff-Depute of the county of Edinburgh.

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Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds toss
The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss;

A DURESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, ESQ. OF STAFFA. On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides,


STAFFA, sprung from high Macdonald,
Worthy branch of old Clan-Ranald!
Staffa! king of all kind fellows!
Well befall thy hills and valleys,

Lakes and inlets, deeps and shallows--
Cliffs of darkness, caves of wonder,
Echoing the Atlantic thunder;
Mountains which the grey mist covers,
Where the Chieftain spirit hovers,
Pausing while his pinions quiver,
Stretch'd to quit our land for ever!
Each kind influence reign above thee!
Warmer heart, 'twixt this and Staffa
Beats not, than in heart of Staffa!

Letter in Werse


"OF the letters which Scott wrote to his friends
during those happy six weeks, I have recovered only
one, and it is, thanks to the leisure of the yacht, in
verse. The strong and easy heroics of the first sec-
tion prove, I think, that Mr. Canning did not err
when he told him that if he chose he might emulate
even Dryden's command of that noble measure; and
the dancing anapests of the second, show that he
could with equal facility have rivalled the gay graces
of Cotton, Anstey, or Moore."-LOCKHART, Life,
vol. iv., p. 372.

His own strong arm the bold adventurer guides,
And he that lists such desperate feat to try,
May, like the sea-mew, skim 'twixt surf and sky,
And feel the mid-air gales around him blow,
And see the billows rage five hundred feet below.

Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore,
The hardy islesman tugs the daring oar,
Practised alike his venturous course to keep,
Through the white breakers or the pathless deep,
By ceaseless peril and by toil to gain

A wretched pittance from the niggard main.
And when the worn-out drudge old ocean leaves,
What comfort greets him, and what hut receives?
Lady! the worst your presence ere has cheer'd
(When want and sorrow fled as you appear'd)
Were to a Zetlander as the high dome
Of proud Drumlanrig to my humble home.
Here rise no groves, and here no gardens blow,
Here even the hardy heath scarce dares to grow;
But rocks on rocks, in mist and storm array'd,
Stretch far to sea their giant colonnade,
With many a cavern seam'd, the dreary haunt
Of the dun seal and swarthy cormorant.
Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry
As of lament, the gulls and gannets fly,
And from their sable base, with sullen sound,
In sheets of whitening foam the waves rebound.

Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain
From those whose land has known oppression's chain;
For here the industrious Dutchman comes once more
To moor his fishing craft by Bressay's shore;
Greets every former mate and brother tar,
Marvels how Lerwick 'scaped the rage of war,
Tells many a tale of Gallic outrage done,
And ends by blessing God and Wellington.
Here too the Greenland tar, a fiercer guest,
Claims a brief hour of riot, not of rest;

TO HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCCLEUCH, Proves each wild frolic that in wine has birth,

&c. &c. &c.

And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous mirth.
A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow

Lighthouse Yacht in the Sound of Lerwick, The captive Norseman sits in silent woe,

Zetland, 8th August 1814.

HEALTH to the chieftain from his clansman true!
From her true minstrel, health to fair Buccleuch !
Health from the isles, where dewy Morning weaves
Her chaplet with the tints that Twilight leaves;
Where late the sun scarce vanish'd from the sight,
And his bright pathway graced the short-lived night,
Though darker now as autumn's shades extend,
The north winds whistle and the mists ascend!

And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow.
Hard fate of war, which bade her terrors sway
His destined course, and seize so mean a prey;
A bark with planks so warp'd and seams so riven,
She scarce might face the gontlest airs of heaven:
Pensive he sits, and questions oft if none
Can list his speech, and understand his moan;
In vain-no Islesman now can use the tongue
Of the bold Norse, from whom their lineage sprung.

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These lines were written in the Album, kept at the Sound 1838, in his 61st year. The reader will find a warm tribute to of Ulva Inn, in the month of August, 1814.

Staffa's character as a Highland landlord, in Scott's article on
Sir John Carr's Caledonian Sketches.-Miscellaneous Proct

8 Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart Seton of
Staffa. Allanton, and Touch, Baronet. He died 16th Apri! | Works, vol. xix.



Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came,
Won by the love of danger or of fame;
On every storm-beat cape a shapeless tower
Tells of their wars, their conquests, and their power;
For ne'er for Grecia's vales, nor Latian land,
Was fiercer strife than for this barren strand;
A race severe the isle and ocean lords,
Loved for its own delight the strife of swords;
With scornful laugh the mortal pang defied,
And blest their gods that they in battle died.

Such were the sires of Zetland's simple race, And still the eye may faint resemblance trace In the blue eye, tall form, proportion fair, The limbs athletic, and the long light hair(Such was the mien, as Scald and Minstrel sings, Of fair-hair'd Harold, first of Norway's Kings ;) But their high deeds to scale these crags confined, Their only warfare is with waves and wind.

Why should I talk of Mousa's castled coast? Why of the horrors of the Sumburgh Rost? May not these bald disjointed lines suffice, Penn'd while my comrades whirl the rattling diceWhile 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, And bade her bowsprit kiss the foamy tide?

Such are the lays that Zetland Isles supply; Drench'd with the drizzly spray and dropping sky, Weary and wet, a sea-sick minstrel I.- -W. SCOTT.


Kirkwall, Orkney, Aug. 13, 1814. IN respect that your Grace has commission'd a Kraken,

You will please be inform'd that they 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,
Though bold in the seas of the North to assail
The morse and the sea-horse, the grampus and whale.
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 inform'd, from the Scotts of Scot-
starvet ;)'

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
That it seem'd like the keel of a ship, and no more-

The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name JD Fife and elsewhere, claim 10 kindred with the great clan of the Border,-and their armorial bearings are different.

Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high,
Said it rose like an island 'twixt ocean and sky-
But all of the hulk had a steady opinion
That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's dominion-
And I think, my Lord Duke, your Grace hardly
would wish,

To cumber your house, such a kettle of fish.
Had your order related to night-caps or hose,
Or mittens of worsted, there's plenty of those.
Or would you be pleased but to fancy a whale?
And direct me to send it-by sea or 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,
Pursued by seven Orkneymen's boats and no more,
Betwixt Truffness and Luffness were drawn on the
shore !

You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight;
I own that I did not, but easily might-
For this mighty shoal of leviathans lay
On our lee-beam a mile, in the loop of the bay,
And the islesmen of Sanda were all at the spoil,
And flinching (so term it) the blubber to boil;
(Ye spirits of lavender, drown the reflection
That awakes at the thoughts of this odorous dissection.)
To see this huge marvel full fain would we go,
But Wilson, the wind, and the current, said no.
We have now got to Kirkwall, and needs I must stare
When I think that in verse I have once call'd it fair;
'Tis a base little borough, both dirty and mean-
There is nothing to hear, and there's nought to be seen,
Save a church, where, of old times, a prelate harangued.
And a palace that's built by an earl that was hang'd.
But, farewell to Kirkwall-aboard we are going,
The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are blowing;
Our commodore calls all his band to their places,
And 'tis time to release you-good night to your

Verses from Waverley.

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"THE following song, which has been since borrowed by the worshipful author of the famous History of Fryar Bacon,' has been with difficulty deciphered. It seems to have been sung on occasion of carrying home the bride."

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THE Knight's to the mountain

His bugle to wind;

The Lady's to greenwood

Her garland to bind.

The bower of Burd Ellen

Has moss on the floor,

That the step of Lord William

Be silent and sure.

Chap. ix.

Hie away, hie away,

Over bank and over brae,

Where the copsewood is the greenect,
Where the fountains glisten sheenest,
Where the lady-fern grows strongest,
Where the morning dew lies longest,
Where the black-cock sweetest sips it,
Where the fairy latest trips it:
Hie to haunts right seldom seen,
Lovely, lonesome, cool, and green,
Over bank and over brae,
Hie away, hie away.

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"THE view of the old tower, or fortalice, introduced some family anecdotes and tales of Scottish chivalry, which the Baron told with great enthusiasm. The projecting peak of an impending crag, which rose near it, had acquired the name of St. Swithin's Chair. It was the scene of a peculiar superstition, of which Mr. Rubrick mentioned some curious particulars, which reminded Waverley of a rhyme quoted by Edgar in King Lear; and Rose was called upon to sing a little legend, in which they had been interwoven by some village poet,

Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.

"The sweetness of her voice, and the simple beauty of her music, gave all the advantage which the minstrel could have desired, and which his poetry so much wanted."

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