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XXIV.

DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF *,

Who was executed after the Rebellion.

Son of the mighty and the free,
Lov'd leader of the faithful brave,
Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee

To fill a nameless grave ?
Oh! hadst thou slumbered with the slain;
Had glory's death-bed been thy lot,
E'en though on red Culloden's plain,

We then had mourn'd thee not.

But darkly clos'd thy morn of fame,
That morn whose sun-beams rose so fair,
Revenge alone may breathe thy name,

The watch-word of despair;
Yet oh, if gallant spirit's power,
Has e'er ennobled death like thine,
Then glory mark'd thy parting hour,

Last of a mighty line.

* This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman, on reading immediately after its first appearance, he 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,
But cannot cheer their lonely gloom,
Those beams that gild thy native walls,

Are sleeping on thy tomb.
Spring on thy mountains laughs the while,
Thy green woods wave in vernal air,
But the lov’d scenes may vainly smile,

Not e'en thy dust is there.

On thy blue hills, no bugle sound
Is mingling with the torrent's roar,
Unmark'd the red deer sport around -

· Thou lead'st the chase no more. Thy gates are clos’d, thy halls are still,

Those halls where swell?d the choral strain, · They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill,

And all is hush'd again.

Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke;
His fire-his joy of song is past ;--
One lay to mourn thy fate he woke,

His saddest and his last.
No other theme to him is dear
Than lofty deeds of thine;
Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear

113 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.

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*The bell had toll'd the midnight hour,

Monimia sought the shade,
The cheerless yew tree mark'd the spot

Where Leontine was laid.

With soft and trembling steps, the maid

Approach'd the drear abode,
A tear-drop glisten'd on her cheek,

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.

. .

XXVI.

AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT.

AIR.Johnny's gray breeks.

Again rejoicing nature sees

Her robe assume its vernal hues,
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze,
All freshly steep'd in morning dews

And maun I still on Menie doat?
And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ?
For 'tis jet, jet black, and 'tis like a hawk,
And it winna let a body be.

In vain to me the cowslips blaw,

In vain to me the vi'lets spring,
In vain to me, in glen or shaw,
The mavis and the lintwhite sing.

And maun I still, &c.

The merry plowboy cheers his team,

Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks,
But life to me's a weary dream,
A dream of ane that never wakes.

And maun I still, fc.

The wanton coot the water skims,

Among the reeds the ducklings cry,
The stately swan majestic swims,
And every thing is blest but I.

And maun I still, fc.

The shepherd steeks his faulding slap,

And owre the moorlands whistles shrill, Wi' wild unequal wand'ring step, I meet him on the dewy hill. .

And maun I still, &c.

And when the lark, 'tween light and dark,

Blythe wakens by the daisy's side, And mounts and sings on Auttering wings, A wae-worn ghaist I hameward glide.

And maun I still, fc.

Come, Winter, with thy angry howl, .

And, raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature is all sad like me.

And maun I still, f-c..

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