My liege impatient is to learn Where bides the merry Prince of Bearne." The blossom of Navarre replied, I boast was gleaned on woodland hill, I'll take my chance among the rest, Loud laughed the king, and cried, "Agreed!" Unheeding, worked his will. At a tall yeoman's boldest pace And, pointing, said, "Behold the goal!" Back to his ear the shaft he drew, And gracefully, as he had been Apollo's pupil-twang! it flew Right to the mark, which, pierced core through, High swell'd the plaudits of the crowd; As was the custom of the play, His generous cheek flush'd into flame- His eye concentred on the king, A knight the amplest in the field France's lost laurel to regain, Guise shot and cleft the fruit in twain. The garland with Parisian pride, He bore the arrow and its crest, The wounded flower, to the fair, "With this steel stalk, thy favourite, dead! THE DIRGE OF THE LAST CONQUEROR. The flag of battle on its staff hangs drooping- Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Skies, baleful blue-harvests of hateful yellowBring sad assurance that he is not here; Where waved his plume the grape forgot to mellow, He changed the pruning-hook into the spear. But peace and her dull train are fast returning, And so farewell to famine, blood, and burning! Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Hopes of the young and strong, they're all de- | On the deck of the Daring's a love-lighted star; parted Dishonour'd manhood tills the ungrateful farm; | Parents! life's balm hath fled now, broken hearted, Deplore the fate that bids your sons disarm. O heavenly times! when your own gold was paying Your gallant sons for being slain, or slaying! Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Bud of our island's virtue! thou art blighted, Since war's hot breath abroad hath ceased to blow; Instead of clashing swords, soft hearts are plighted, Hands joined, and household goblets made to flow; And for the ocean-roar of hostile meeting, Then wake, lady! wake! I am waiting for thee, And this night or never my bride thou shalt be! Forgive my rough mood, unaccustomed to sue, Yet think not of these, but this moment be mine, And the plume of the proudest shall cower to thine; A hundred shall serve thee, the best of the brave, And the chief of a thousand will kneel as thy slave; Thou shalt rule as a queen, and thy empire shall last Till the red flag, by inches, is torn from the mast. O! islands there are, on the face of the deep, Where the leaves never fade, where the skies never weep; Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your And there, if thou wilt, shall our love bower be, When we quit, for the greenwood, our home on the sea; hearths with gore! The apple-tree is on the rampart growing; On the stern battlement the wall-flower blooms; The stream that roll'd blood-red is faintly glowing With summer's rose, which its green banks perfumes; The helm that girt the brow of the undaunted By peasant hands with garden shrubs is planted. Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no more, Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your hearths with gore! Men wax obscurely old-the city sleeper Starts not at horse-tramp or deep bugle-horn; The grenadier consoles no lovely weeper, Above her sullen kindred's bodies borne; The people smile, and regal pride's declining, Since round imperial brows the olive's twining. Mourn, nations! mouru! the godlike man's no more, And there shalt thou sing of the deeds that were done, When we braved the last blast, and the last battle won. Then haste, lady! haste! for the fair breezes blow, As my ocean-bird poises her pinions of snow; Now fast to the lattice these silken ropes twine, They are meet for such feet and such fingers as thine; The signal, my mates-ho! hurra for the sea! This night and for ever my bride thou shalt be. I LOVE THE LAND. (WRITTEN ON LEAVING SCOTLAND.) I love the land! Who fired your roofs, and quench'd your I see its mountains hoary, hearths with gore! THE PIRATE'S SERENADE.1 My boat's by the tower, my bark's in the bay, On which Time vainly lays his iron hand; I see the valleys robed in sylvan glory, And many a lake with lone, romantic strand; And streams and towers, by immortal story Ordained heart-stirring monuments to stand; Yet tower, stream, lake, or valley could not move me, And both must be gone ere the dawn of the day; Nor the star-wooing mountain, thus to love thee, The moon's in her shroud, but to guide thee afar, 1 The "Serenade" is everywhere sung throughout the United States, and his "Camp Song" is one of the popular and well-established favourites in Texas.-ED. Old, honour'd land! I love the land! I hear of distant ages, A voice proclaiming that it still was free; JAMES TELFER, for twenty-five years a school- | than a local reputation. It contained some master who was "passing rich with forty pounds a year," was born in the parish of Southdean, Roxburghshire, Dec. 3, 1800. At first he followed his father's occupation of a shepherd. A very great admirer of the Ettrick Shepherd's "Queen's Wake," he while quite young determined to produce some ballads similar to those contained in that charming work, and in 1824 he published at Jedburgh a volume of Border Ballads and Miscellaneous Poems, which obtained for him something more fine lines, such as the fairy ballad of the "Gloamyne Buchte," which is remarkable for its tenderness. The style and measure of others of his pieces are as wild and graphic as the old specimens of Scottish ballads. The volume was dedicated to James Hogg in a few sweetly modulated lines. In 1835 Telfer published "Barbara Gray," a well written and interesting prose tale. He was also a frequent contributor in prose and verse to the magazines, and like the Ettrick Shep herd excelled in weird and wild subjects, | the Ettrick Shepherd. His attainments were fairy legends, and folk-lore. He contributed rewarded with a salary of some forty pounds several stories to Wilson's Tales of the Borders. A collected edition of his best productions in prose and verse was published in London in 1852, with the title of Tales and Sketches. Telfer had abandoned the crook, and having qualified himself he for a time kept a school at Castleton, Langholm, and for the last twentyfive years of his life he was the schoolmaster at Saughtrees, Liddesdale, where in his humble but happy home he was frequently visited by per annum-a reward not unlike that conferred on Mr. Abraham Adams in Joseph Andrews, who being a scholar and a man of virtue was "provided with a handsome income of twentythree pounds a year, which, however, he could not make a great figure with, because he lived in a dear country, and was a little encumbered with a wife and six children." Telfer was a most exemplary man and a vigorous writer. He died January 18,1862, in his sixty-second year. THE GLOAMYNE BUCHTE. The sun was reid as a furnace mouthe, O sing me the sang, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, The angels will listen at yon little holes, When bonnye Jeanye Roole she milkit the yowes, I mayna refuse, quo' bonnye Jeanye Roole, I' the buchte aboon the lynne; And they were wilde and ill to weare, But the hindmost buchtfu' was inne. O milk them weil, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, And sing to me "The Keache i' the Crcel," It's fer owre late at e'en, shepherd, Sae weel ye can me winne: And she satte in his armis, and sweetly she sang, And her voice rang frae the lynne. The liltings o' that sylver voice, Might weel the wits beguile; The liltings o' that sylver voice, The fairies wad hear, quo' bonny Jeanye Roole, They softer were than lover's lute, IIe's ta'en her round the middel sae sma', The star o' love i' the eastern lifte O who can tell of youthfu' love! It is a thraldome, well I weene, It is a draught to craze the braine, Heard o'er a sleeping sea. The liltings o' that sylver voice They sprang up-through the welkin wide Sing on, sing on, my bonnye Jeanye Roole, They turned their gaze to the Mourning Cleuch, And aye it raised a waesome greete, Untille it came to the buchte fauld ende, It lookit around with its snail-cap eyne, That made their hearts to grou; Than turned upright its grass-green face, And opend its goblyne mou'; Then raised a youle, sae loude and lange- As dirled up throwe the twinkling holes I tell the tale as tolde to me, I swear so by my faye; That youling yowte sae yerlish was, And round the boddome o' the lifte, And boomed against the milkye waye, Then neiste it raised its note and sang The waizle dunne frae the auld grey cairn, The todde he came frae the Screthy holes, The stinkin' brocke wi' his lang lank lyske, The kidde and martyne ranne a race The mawkin gogglet i' the synger's face, The pert little eskis they curlit their tails, The herone came frae the witch-pule tree, While tears down his cheeks did flowe. The yowes they lap out-owre the buchte, And bonnye Jeanye Roole i' the shepherd's armis, Fell back out-owre in a swoone. It might be glamourye or not, It was the witching time of night- Her pulses all were beatinge trewe, THE SONGE. O where is tinye Hewe? CHORUS.--Ay lu lan, lan dil y'u, &c. And when the blushing moone CHORUS.-Ay lu lan, lan dil y'u, &c. The straine raise high, the straine fell low, Then fainted fitfullye; And bonnye Jeanye Roole she lookit up, To see what she might see. She lookit hiche to the bodynge hille, And laighe to the darklynge deane;― She heard the soundis still ringin' i' the lifte, But nacthinge could be seene. She held her breathe with anxious care, |