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from the Legeud of Montrose. (1.)-CHAP. VIII. THE hearth in hall was black and dead,

(1.) -ANCIENT GAELIC MELODY. No board was dight in bower within, Nor merry bowl nor welcome bed;

“So saying, Annot Lyle sate down at a little “Here's sorry cheer,” quoth the Heir of Linne. distance upon the bench on which Allan M'Aulay Old Ballad,

was placed, and tuning her clairshach, a small [Altered from The Heir of Linne."] harp, about thirty inches in height, she accompa

nied it with her voice. The air was an ancient (2.)-CHAP. XIV.

Gaelic melody, and the words, which were supAs, to the Autumn breeze's bugle-sound, posed to be very old, were in the same language; Various and vague the dry leaves dance their but we subjoin a translation of them, by Secundus round;

M‘Pherson, Esq., of Glenforgen ; which, although Or, from the garner-door, on æther borne, submitted to the fetters of English rhythm, we The chaff flies devious from the winnow'd corn; trust will be found nearly as genuine as the verSo vague, so devious, at the breath of heaven, sion of Ossian by his celebrated namesake.” From their fix'd aim are mortal counsels driven. Anonymous.


BIRDS of omen dark and foul,
(3.)–CHAP. XVII.

Night-crow, raven, bat, and owl,
Here is a father now,

Leave the sick man to his dream-
Will truck his daughter for a foreign venture, All night long he heard you scream.
Make her the stop-gap to some canker'd feud, Haste to cave and ruin'd tower,
Or fling her o'er, like Jonah, to the fishes,

Ivy tod, or dingled-bower,
appease the sea at highest.

There to wink and mop, for, hark !
Anonymous. In the mid air sings the lark.

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(1.)/CHAP. X.

Dark on their journey lour'd the gloomy day, “ TUNING her instrument, and receiving an as- Wild were the hills, and doubtful grew the way; senting look from Lord Monteith and Allan, Annot More dark, more gloomy, and more doubtful, Lyle executed the following ballad, which our show'd friend, Mr. Secundus M'Pherson, whose goodness The mansion which received them from the road. we had before to acknowledge, has thus translated

The Travellers, a Romance. into the English tongue:”—

(2)–CHAP. XI. NOVEMBER's hail-cloud drifts away,

Is this thy castle, Baldwin! Melancholy
November's sunbeam wan

Displays her sable banner from the donjon,
Looks coldly on the castle gray,

Dark’ning the foam of the whole surge beneath. When forth comes Lady Anne.

Were I a habitant, to see this gloom

Pollute the face of nature, and to hear The orphan by the oak was set,

The ceaseless sound of wave and sea-bird's scream, Her arms, her feet, were bare ;

I'd wish me in the hut that poorest peasant
The hail-drops had not melted yet,

Ere framed to give him temporary shelter.
Amid her raven hair,


And dame,” she said, “ by all the ties

That child and mother know,
Aid one who never knew these joys,-

Relieve an orphan's woe."

(3.)-CHAP. XIV.
This was the entry, then, these stairs—but whither

after ?
Yet he that's sure to perish on the land

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5. “Joy to the fair !--my name unknown, Each deed, and all its praise, thine own; Then, oh! unbar this churlish gate, The night-dow falls, the hour is late. Inured to Syria's glowing breath, I feel the north breeze chill as death;

7. Long flourish the sandal, the cord, and the cope, The dread of the devil and trust of the Pope ! For to gather life's roses, unscathed by the brier, Is granted alone to the Barefooted Friar.

Chap. xvi.



All must perish! “The fire was spreading rapidly through all The sword cleaveth the helmet; parts of the castle, when Ulrica, who had first The strong armor is pierced by the lance: kindled it, appeared on a turret, in the guise of Fire devoureth the dwelling of princes, one of the ancient furies, yelling forth a war-song, Engines break down the fences of the battle. such as was of yore chanted on the field of battle All must perish! by the yet heathen Saxons. Her long dishevelled The race of Hengist is gone gray hair flew back from her uncovered head; the The name of Horsa is no more! inebriating delight of gratified vengeance contend- Shrink not then from your doom, sons of the ed in her eyes with the fire of insanity; and she

sword! brandished the distaff which she held in her hand, Let your blades drink blood like wine : as if she had been one of the Fatal Sisters, who Feast ye in the banquet of slaughter, spin and abridge the thread of human life. Tra- By the light of the blazing halls ! dition has preserved some wild strophes of the Strong be your swords while your blood is warm barbarous hymn which she chanted wildly amid And spare neither for pity nor fear, that scene of fire and slaughter :”—

For vengeance hath but an hour ;

Strong hate itself shall expire !

I also must perish.
Wher the bright steel,
Sons of the White Dragon!
Kindle the torch,

Note." It will readily occur to the antiquary, Daughter of Hengist !

[banquet, that these verses are intended to imitate the anThe steel glimmers not for the carving of the tique poetry of the Scalds—the minstrels of the It is hard, broad, and sharply pointed;

old Scandinavians—the race, as the Laureate so The torch goeth not to the bridal chamber,

happily terms them, It steams and glitters blue with sulphur. Whet the steel, the raven croaks !

• Stern to inflict, and stubborn to endore,

Who smiled in death.'
Light the torch, Zernebock is yelling!
Whet the steel, sons of the Dragon!

The poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, after their civiliKindle the torch, daughter of Hengist!

zation and conversion, was of a different and softer

character ; but, in the circumstances of Ulrica, she 2.

may be not unnaturally supposed to return to the The black clouds are low over the thane's castle : wild strains which animated her forefathers during The eagle screams—he rides on their bosom.

the times of Paganism and untamed ferocity." Scream not, gray rider of the sable cloud,

Chap. Xü. Thy banquet is prepared ! The maidens of Valhalla look forth, The race of Hengist will send them guests. Shake your black tresses, maidens of Valhalla !

(4.)-REBECCA'S HYMN. And strike your loud timbrels for joy! Many a haughty step bends to your halls, " It was in the twilight of the day when her Many a helmed head.

trial, if it could be called such, had taken place,

that a low knock was heard at the door of Re3.

becca's prison chamber. It disturbed not the inDark sits the evening upon the thane's castle, mate, who was then engaged in the evening prayer The black clouds gather round;

recommended by her religion, and which concluded Soon shall they be red as the blood of the valiant! with a hymn, which we have ventured thus to The destroyer of forests shall shake his red crest translate into English:"

against them; He, the bright consumer of palaces,

WHEN Israel, of the Lord beloved, Broad waves he his blazing banner,

Out from the land of bondage came, Red, wide, and dusky,

Her fathers' God before her moved, Over the strife of the valiant;

An awful guide in smoke and flame. His joy is in the clashing swords and broken By day, along the astonish'd lands bucklers;

The cloudy pillar glided slow; He loves to lick the hissing blood as it bursts By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands warm from the wound !

Return'd the fiery column's glow.




Chap. xl.

There rose the choral hymn of praise,

(6.)—SONG. And trump and timbrel answer'd keen, And Zion's daughters pour'd their lays,

“THE Jester next struck into another carol, a With priests and warrior's voice between.

sort of comic ditty, to which the Knight, catching No portents now our foes amaze,

up the tune, replied in the like manner.”
Forsaken Israel wanders lone :
Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

There came three merry men from south, west,

and north, But present still, though now unseen!

Ever more sing the roundelay; When brightly shines the prosperous day, To win the Widow of Wycombe forth, Be thoughts of THEE a cloudy screen

And where was the widow might say them nay! To temper the deceitful ray. And oh, when stoops on Judah's path

The first was a knight, and from Tynedale he came, In shade and storm the frequent night,

Ever more sing the roundelay; Be Thou, long-suffering, slow to wrath,

And his fathers, God save us, were men of great A burning and a shining light!


And where was the widow might say him nay? Our harps we left by Babel's streams, The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn;

Of his father the laird, of his uncle the squire, No censer round our altar beams,

He boasted in rhyme and in roundelay; And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn.

She bade him go bask by his sea-coal fire, But Thou hast said, The blood of goat,

For she was the widow would say him nay. The flesh of rams I will not prize; A contrite heart, a humble thought, Are mine accepted sacrifice.

The next that came forth, swore by blood and by

nails, Merrily sing the roundelay; Hur's a gentleman, God wot, and hur's lineage was


And where was the widow might say him nay? " Ar the point of their journey at which we take them up, this joyous pair were engaged in singing

Sir David ap Morgan ap Griffith ap Hugh a virelai, as it was called, in which the clown bore

Ap Tudor ap Rhice, quoth his roundelay; a stiff and mellow burden to the better instructed She said that one widow for so many was too few, Knight of the Fetterlock. And thus ran the ditty:"

And she bade the Welshman wend his way. Anna-Marie, love, up is the sun,

But then next came a yeoman, a yeoman of Kent, Anna-Marie, love, morn is begun,

Jollily singing his roundelay; Mists are dispersing, love, birds singing free,

He spoke to the widow of living and rent, Up in the morning, love, Anna-Marie.

And where was the widow could say him nay?
Anna-Marie, love, up in the morn,
The hunter is winding blithe sounds on his horn,
The echo rings merry from rock and from tree, So the knight and the squire were both left in the
'Tis time to arouse thee, love, Anna-Marie.

There for to sing their roundelay;
For a yeoman of Kent, with his yearly rent,
There ne'er was a widow could


him O Tybalt, love, Tybalt, awake me not yet,


Chap. xli. Around my soft pillow while softer dreams flit; For what are the joys that in waking we prove, Compared with these visions, O Tybalt! my love? Let the birds to the rise of the mist carol shrill,

(7.)FUNERAL HYMN. Let the hunter blow out his loud horn on the hill, Softer sounds, softer pleasures, in slumber I “ FOUR maidens, Rowena leading the choir, prove,

raised a hymn for the soul of the deceased, of which But think not I dream'd of thee, Tybalt, my love. we have only been able to decipher two or three

Chap. xli.




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