My liege impatient is to learn

Where bides the merry Prince of Bearne."
With solemn tone and brow demure

The blossom of Navarre replied,
"Trust me, my lord, you may assure
My cousin that with pride
I'd venture in the morning's sport,
Had I been perfected at court
In forest-lore. The little skill

I boast was gleaned on woodland hill,
From the wild hunters of our land,
Who Paris modes ill understand.
If you will countenance to-day
Trial of our provincial way,

I'll take my chance among the rest,
And, hap what will, I'll do my best."

Loud laughed the king, and cried, "Agreed!"
Ladies and lords laughed louder still.
The buoyant prince, with feathery speed,

Unheeding, worked his will.

At a tall yeoman's boldest pace
He measured o'er the shooting space,
Planted an orange on a pole,

And, pointing, said, "Behold the goal!"
Then stood as practised archers stand
When the coy deer invites the hand.

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,
Fell sever'd on the green.

High swell'd the plaudits of the crowd;
The marksman neither spoke nor bow'd,
But braced him for a second shot,

As was the custom of the play,
When Charles, in accents brief and hot,
Desired him to give way,
And with small show of courtesy
Displaced him ere he could reply.

His generous cheek flush'd into flame-
Trembled from head to heel his frame.
Again he had his weapon ready,

His eye concentred on the king,
With manhood's mettle burning steady,
A fearful-looking thing !

A knight the amplest in the field
Served the scared monarch for a shield
Until his cousin's anger slept,
When from his portly screen he stept
And idly strove the mark to hit,
Passing a spear's length wide of it;
Muttering a ban on bow and quiver,
He flung them both into the river,
And straight departed from the scene,
His dignity disturbed by spleen.

France's lost laurel to regain,

Guise shot and cleft the fruit in twain.
Harry liked little to divide

The garland with Parisian pride,
And failing at the time to find
An orange suited to his mind,
Begg'd from a blushing country maid
A red rose on her bosom laid.
Poor girl! it was not in her power
From such a youth to save the flower!
The prize was his-triumphantly
He fixed it on a neighbouring tree-
His bonnet doffed and cleared his brow,
While beauty whispered "Note him now."
A moment, and the sweet rose shiver'd
Beneath the shaft that in it quiver'd.

He bore the arrow and its crest,

The wounded flower, to the fair,
The pressure of whose virgin breast
It late seem'd proud to bear.
Shrinking, she wished herself away
As the young prince, with bearing gay
And gallant speech, before her bent,
Like victor at a tournament-
"Damsel! accept again," he said,

"With this steel stalk, thy favourite, dead!
Unwept it perished-for there glows
On thy soft cheek a lovelier rose!"

THE DIRGE OF THE LAST CONQUEROR.

The flag of battle on its staff hangs drooping-
The thundering artillery is still-
The war-horse pines, and, o'er his sabre stooping,
His rider grieves for his neglected skill:
The chief who swept the ruddy tide of glory,
The conqueror! now only lives in story.

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!

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,
Land wafts to land Concord's ignoble greeting.
Mourn, nations! mourn! the godlike man's no
more,

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,
I woo not, perchance, as your land lovers woo;
My voice has been tuned to the notes of the gun,
That startle the deep when the combat's begun;
And heavy and hard is the grasp of a hand
Whose glove has been ever the guard of a brand.

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;

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!

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,

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;

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-
Sae yerlish and sae shrille,

As dirled up throwe the twinkling holes
The second lifte untille.

I tell the tale as tolde to me,

I swear so by my faye;
And whether or not of glamourye,
In soothe I cannot say.

That youling yowte sae yerlish was,
Butte and sae lang and loude,
The rysing moone like saffron grewe,
And holed ahint a cloude.

And round the boddome o' the lifte,
It rang the world through,

And boomed against the milkye waye,
Afore it closed its mou'.

Then neiste it raised its note and sang
Sae witchinglye and sweete,
The moudies, powtelit out o' the yirth,
And kyssed the synger's feete.

The waizle dunne frae the auld grey cairn,
The theiffe foulmart came nighe;
The hurcheon raxed his scory chafts,
And gepit wi' girning joye.

The todde he came frae the Screthy holes,
And courit fou cunninglye;

The stinkin' brocke wi' his lang lank lyske,
Shotte up his gruntle to see.

The kidde and martyne ranne a race
Amang the dewye ferne;

The mawkin gogglet i' the synger's face,
Th' enchanting notes to learne.

The pert little eskis they curlit their tails,
And danced a myrthsome reele;
The tade held up her auld dunne lufes,
She likit the sang sae weele.

The herone came frae the witch-pule tree,
The houlet frae Deadwood howe;
The auld gray corbie hoverit aboone,

While tears down his cheeks did flowe.

The yowes they lap out-owre the buchte,
And skippit up and downe;

And bonnye Jeanye Roole i' the shepherd's armis,

Fell back out-owre in a swoone.

It might be glamourye or not,
In sooth I cannot say,

It was the witching time of night-
The hour o' gloamyne gray,
And she that lay in her loveris armis
I wis was a weel-faured Maye.

Her pulses all were beatinge trewe,
Her heart was loupinge lighte,
Unto that wondrous melody-
That simple song of mighte.

THE SONGE.

O where is tinye Hewe?
O where is little Lenne?
And where is bonnye Lu?
And Menie o' the glenne?
And where's the place o' rest?
The ever changing hame-
Is it the gowan's breast,
Or 'neath the bell o' faem?
CHORUS.-Ay lu lan, lan dil y'u, &c.
The fairest rose you finde
May have a taint withinne;
The flower o' womankinde,
May ope her breast to sinne.
The foxglove cuppe you'll bring,
The taile of shootinge sterne,
And at the grassy ring,
We'll pledge the pith o' ferne.

CHORUS.--Ay lu lan, lan dil y'u, &c.

And when the blushing moone
Glides down the western skye,
By streamer's wing we soon
Upon her top will lye;-
Her hichest horn we'll ride,
And quaffe her yellowe dewe;
And frae her skaddowye side, ̧
The burning daye we'll viewe.

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,
And thought it all a dreame;-
But an eiry nicher she heard i' the linne,
And a plitch-platch in the streime.