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, 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, Atlantic winds shall blaw 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! Song, FOR THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE PITT CLUB OF SCOTLAND. 1814. O, 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 men, PITT closed in his anguish the map of her reign! Not the fate of broad Europe could bend his brave spirit 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, 1 "On the 30th of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine, 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. He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow, ness, 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, Nor forget His grey head, who, all dark in affliction, 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 name. Yet again fill the wine-cup, and change the sad mea sure, The rites of our grief and our gratitude paid, To our Prince, to our Heroes, devote the bright trea sure, 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. Pharos Loquitur.' FAR in the bosom of the deep, O'er these wild shelves my watch I keep; A ruddy gem of changeful light, And scorns to strike his timorous sail. 1824. Scott's Diary of the Voyage is now published in the 4th volume of his Life. 1 The late Robert Hamilton, Esq., Advocate, long SheriffDepute 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. Lines,1 Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds toss ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, ESQ. OF STAFFA. On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides, 1814. STAFFA, sprung from high Macdonald, Letter in Verse ON THE VOYAGE WITH THE COMMISSIONERS OF "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 section 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 anapasts 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, Here, by each stormy peak and desert shore, Wild round their rifted brows, with frequent cry Yet even these coasts a touch of envy gain 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. 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! And eyes the flags of Britain as they flow. These lines were written in the Album, kept at the Sound of Ulva Inn, in the month of August, 1814. 2 Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart Seton of Staffa, Allanton, and Touch, Baronet. He died 16th Apri! 1838, in his 61st year. The reader will find a warm tribute to 2 s Not thus of old the Norsemen hither came, 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. POSTSCRIPTUM. 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; He question'd the folks who beheld it with eyes, 1 The Scotts of Scotstarvet, and other families of the name in Fife and elsewhere, claim no kindred with the great clan of the Border, and their armorial bearings are different. Those of eyesight more clear, or of fancy more high, 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. You'll ask if I saw this same wonderful sight; Verses from Waverley. 1814. "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." (1.) BRIDAL SONG. To the tune of “I have been a Fiddler," &c. And did ye not hear of a mirth befell The morrow after a wedding day, And carrying a bride at home to dwell? And away to Tewin, away, away IN LUCKIE MACLEARY'S TAVERN. "IN the middle of this din, the Baron repeatedly implored silence; and when at length the instinct of polite discipline so far prevailed, that for a moment he obtained it, he hastened to beseech thier attention unto a military ariette, which was a particular favourite of the Maréchal Duc de Berwick;' then, imitating, as well as he could, the manner and tone of a French musquetaire, he immediately commenced," Mon cœur volage, dit-elle, N'est pas pour vous, garçon, Est pour un homme de guerre, Qui a barbe au menton. Lon, Lon, Laridon. Qui porte chapeau a plume, Soulier a rouge talon, Qui joue de la flute, Aussi de violon. Lon, Lon, Laridon. "Balmawhapple could hold no longer, but break in with what he called a d-d good song, composed by Gibby Gaethrowit, the Piper of Cupar; and, without wasting more time, struck up-" It's up Glenbarchan's braes I gaed, If up a bonny black-cock should spring, Chap. xi. (5.)-" HIE AWAY, HIE AWAY." "THE stamping of horses was now heard in the court, and Davie Gellatley's voice singing to the two large deer greyhounds," Chap. xii. (6.)-ST. SWITHIN'S CHAIR. "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." On Hallow-Mass Eve, ere you boune ye to rest, For on Hallow-Mass Eve the Night-Hag will ride, The Lady she sate in St. Swithin's Chair, She mutter'd the spell of Swithin bold, He that dare sit on St. Swithin's Chair, When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air, |