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LXXXII. Away! they cry; another mile For Mungo let us freely toil, Ere ghost of witch, or suicide, Or bairns that unbaptized died, His gentle spirit should be bound To ward away from holy ground: Who knows what time another soul Would come in turn to take controul ? Then let us run a little while To save poor Mungo miekle toil: Yon fun'ral comes, but strain your pow'rs, And victory will soon be ours.
A POEM INSCRIBED TO SAMUEL ROSE, ESQ.
The most romantic pass of the Grampian mountains, and one
of the wildest scenes in the Highlands of Scotland, is Glenalmond, a valley about halfway between Crieff and Aberfeldy ; near the centre of which is seen the well-known grave of the Soldier, whose melancholy fate is the subject of the following Poem.
Peeping o'er jutting crags on the hunter below,
But when the grey eagle retires to his nest,
O pass not, kind Sir, through this valley of Death, When sable clouds low'r over lightning singed heath; Or when the fierce night-hawk, in search of his prey, Screams round the black gibbet at parting of day: Incautiously would you this warning forego, Humanity strongly invites you to know The worm-wasted Braeman's fate, laid in yon grave, O’er which the tall ferns of the wilderness wave.
In scatt'ring the vengeance of Britain on those Who ventured her sovereign will to oppose, Regardless of danger, in many a clime, Most valiantly Taggart devoted his prime ; Though Time’s wasting hand had enfeebled his frame, No hardship his high soaring spirit could tame; But weary of warfare, when Peace crown'd his toil, He wish'd to return to his own native soil.
Although a grim skeleton, covered with scars, Taking home little more than his bones from the wars,
The strength of the veteran seem'd to renew
“O gather not round me, ye clouds, till I see Rising over my cottage the mountain ash tree ! Ah! well I remember, when 'neath its brown shade, How bonnets and belts of green rushes I made; How dirks and claymores, of the bog-buried pine, I artfully cut out, and thought myself fine; As some Druid circle, thus deckt I march'd round, With squad keeping time to the saugh whistle's sound.
« On garrison duty, or warding the plain, Alone or surrounded by ramparts of slain, Or resting at night by the wolf-scaring blaze, Midst savages wand'ring the wood's winding maze; Wherever I was, or by land or by sea, The home of my fathers was present to me; There surely kind Heaven will allow me to find The long fancied pleasures that rose in my mind.
“ Where blows the crow flower on yon dusky hill
“ And when I, to keep my old sire in the land, Put up a cockade at the chieftain's command, Then cheerfully Morag, to share in my toil, Left all her relations and Britain's green isle. Where loud roard the fight, she was still in the rear, To bind up my wounds and my spirits to cheer; Nor would she repine, though she march’d, or was hurld On big guns or baggage-carts over the world.
" But now I'm discharged at the reveillie's sound, No more will I rise white with snow from the ground, Nor at the rough rattle of Cuckold come Digi' Again shoulder shovel, and march to fatigue.