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To take for his country the safety of shame;

1 Sung at the first meeting of the Pitt Club of Scotland; and O, then in her triumph remember his merit, published in the Scots Magazine for July, 1814.

And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

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Though anxious and timeless his life was expended, ADDRESSED TO RANALD MACDONALD, ESQ., OF STAFFA.3 In toils for our country preserved by his care,

Though he died ere one ray o'er the nations as

cended,

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 shall Britain remember, And hallow the goblet that flows to his name.

Nor forget His gray 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

name.

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

measure,

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

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 GRÆME;

1814.

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 gray 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 Verse

ON THE VOYAGE WITH THE COMMISSIONERS OF
NORTHERN LIGHTS.

"Or 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

A thousand years hence hearts shall bound at their the first section prove, I think, that Mr. Canning

story,

did not err when he told him that if he chose he

And hallow the goblet that flows to their fame. might emulate even Dryden's command of that

"On the 30th of July, 1814, Mr. Hamilton, Mr. Erskine,† and Mr. Duff, 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, 1824. Scott's Diary of the Voyage is now published in the 4th volume of his Life.

2 These lines were written in the Album, kept at the Sound of Ulva Inn in the month of August, 1814.

3 Afterwards Sir Reginald Macdonald Stewart Seton of Staffa, Allanton, and Touch, Baronet. He died 16th April, 1838, in his 61st year. The reader will find a warm tribute to Staffa's character as a Highland landlord, in Scott's article on Sir John Carr's Caledonian Sketches.-Miscellaneous Prose Works, vol. xix.

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

+ Afterwards Lord Kinneder.

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

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.

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, And wakes the land with brawls and boisterous

&c. &c. &c.

Lighthouse Yacht in the Sound of Lerwick,
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! Health from the land where eddying whirlwinds

toss

The storm-rock'd cradle of the Cape of Noss;
On outstretch'd cords the giddy engine slides,
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

mirth.

A sadder sight on yon poor vessel's prow
The captive Norseman sits in silent woe,
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 gentlest 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.

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
dice-

While down the cabin skylight lessening shine
The rays, and eve is chased with mirth and wine?
Imagined, while down Mousa's desert day
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.

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If your Grace thinks I'm writing the thing that is The anchor's a-peak, and the breezes are blowing:

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That 'twas sure a live subject of Neptune's do- History of Fryar Bacon,' has been with difficulty

minion

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 dis-
section).

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.

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!

The quintain was set, and the garlands were made,

"Tis pity old customs should ever decay; And woe be to him that was horsed on a jade, For he carried no credit away, away.

We met a concert of fiddle-de-dees;

We set them a cockhorse, and made them play

The winning of Bullen, and Upsey-frees,
And away to Tewin, away, away!

There was ne'er a lad in all the parish

That would go to the plough that day; But on his fore-horse his wench he carries, And away to Tewin, away, away!

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But distant winds began to wake,
And roused the Genius of the Lake!
He heard the groaning of the oak,
And donn'd at once his sable cloak,
As warrior, at the battle cry,
Invests him with his panoply:
Then, as the whirlwind nearer press'd,
He 'gan to shake his foamy crest

O'er furrow'd brow and blacken'd cheek,
And bade his surge in thunder speak.
In wild and broken eddies whirl'd,
Flitted that fond ideal world;
And, to the shore in tumult tost,
The realms of fairy bliss were lost.

(3.)-DAVIE GELLATLEY'S SONG.

"HE (Daft Davie Gellatley) sung with grea earnestness, and not without some taste, a frag ment of an old Scotch ditty:"

False love, and hast thou play'd me this
In summer among the flowers?

I will repay thee back again
In winter among the showers.
Unless again, again, my love,

Unless you turn again;

As you with other maidens rove,

I'll smile on other men.

"This is a genuine ancient fragment, with some alteration in the last two lines."

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