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AIR.What ails this heart o' mine,
Her kiss was soft and sweet,
That kiss has poison'd peace,
Now lonely's every haunt
The rose can please nae mair,
This bosom once was gay,
Yet none shall hear the sigh
Tho' silent be my woe,
She minds na o'the vows
DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF *,
Who was executed after the Rebellion,
Son of the mighty and the free,
To fill a nameless grave ?
We then had mourn'd thee not.
But darkly clos'd thy morn of fame,
The watch-word of despair;
Last of a mighty line.
* This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman, on reading immediately after its first appearance, she well known work, entitled « Waverley.” It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if he should approve, and under his correction, that it might be inserted in the future editions of that celebrated Novel. The individual, however, to whom it was addressed, being wholly unconnected with the work referred to, and having no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged proper,
O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls,
Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Not e'en thy dust is there.
On thy blue hills no bugle sound
Thou lead'st the chase no more.
And all is hush'd again.
Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke;
His saddest and his last.
pros Last of a mighty line.
both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal, which we conceive it so well calculated to afford.
The bell had toll’d the midnight hour,
Monimia sought the shade,
Where Leontine was laid.
With soft and trembling steps, the maid
Approach'd the drear abode,
And dew'd her lover's sod.
Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook,
And sigh'd with hollow moan; The wand'ring moon had sunk to rest,
And faint the twilight shone.
Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale,
Dew'd with the tear of sorrow, While oft she press'd her lover's grave,
Nor wak’d with dawn of morrow.