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As free from life, as if he ne'er had liv'd.

Where are his friends, and where his old acquaint

ance,

Who borrow'd from his strength, when, in the yoke,
With weary pace, the steep ascent they climb'd?
Where are the gay companions of his prime,
Who with him ambled o'er the flowery turf,
And, proudly snorting, pass'd the way-worn hack
With haughty brow, and on his ragged coat
Look'd with contemptuous scorn? Oh, yonder see
Carelessly basking in the mid-day sun

They lie, and heed him not ;-little thinking,
While there they triumph in the blaze of noon,
How soon the dread annihilating hour
Will come, and Death seal up their eyes,
Like his, for ever!-Moralizer, now

Retire! Yet, first proclaim this sacred truth-
Chance rules not over death; but, when a fly

Falls to the earth, 'tis Heav'n that gives the blow!

CULLODEN, OR LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL.

GRIEVE.

CULLODEN, on thy swarthy brow

Spring no wild flow'rs nor verdure fair :
Thou feel'st not summer's genial glow,
More than the freezing wintry air;
For once thou drank'st the hero's blood,
And war's unhallow'd footsteps bore;
The deeds unholy, Nature view'd,

Then fled, and curs'd thee evermore.

From Beauly's wild and woodland glens,
How proudly Lovat's banners soar!

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How fierce the plaided Highland clans
Rush onward with the broad claymore!
Those hearts that high with honour heav'd,
The volleying thunder there laid low;
Or scatter'd like the forest leaves,

When wint'ry winds begin to blow!

Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel !
The braided plume 's torn from thy brow;
What must thy haughty spirit feel,

When skulking like the mountain roe!
While wild-birds chaunt from Lochy's bowers,
On April eve, their loves and joys,
The Lord of Lochy's loftiest towers
To foreign lands an exile flies.

To his blue hills that rose in view,
As o'er the deep his galley bore,
He often look'd, and cried, "Adieu!
I'll never see Lochaber more!
Though now thy wounds I cannot heal,
My dear, my injur'd native land!
In other climes thy foe shall feel

The weight of Cameron's deadly brand.

"Land of proud hearts, and mountains grey ! Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung! Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day,

That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung.
Where once they rul'd and roam'd at will,
Free as their own dark mountain game,
Their sons are slaves, yet keenly feel
A longing for their fathers' fame.

"Shades of the mighty and the brave, Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell;

No trophies mark your common grave,
No dirges to your mem'ry swell!
But gen'rous hearts will weep your fate,
When far has roll'd the tide of time;
And bards unborn shall renovate
Your fading fame in loftiest rhyme!"

A VOICE FROM THE HIGHLANDS.

Written on occasion of his Majesty King George IV''s Visit to Scotland, in August 1822.

ANONYMOUS.

THE peak of yon mountain is shining in light, Like the beacon which summon'd our fathers to

fight;

Each chief from the Highlands has follow'd the blaze,

At the call of his Monarch his standard to raise.

The sleep of the heathcock is peaceful and still, For the pibroch has summon'd the Sons of the Hill; We have left the red deer to be lord of the glen, And by tens and by fifties have muster'd our men.

Yet the dirk and the broadsword shall serve but to show,

That to welcome a foeman we had not been slow; We haste where yon vessel approaches the land, But it is not for battle we press to the strand.

Our Chieftains will crowd round the greatest of all,
The first in the field, and the first in the hall;
To so mighty a Master 'tis given to few
So fair and so willing a homage to do.

No Master but he, for his frown or his smiles,
Could call from the mountain the Lord of the Isles;
To him and no other in duty would bow
The plume of the eagle on Sutherland's brow.

For him and no other Glengarry would stay
So far from the stag and the rifle away;

They are few to whom Campbell or Gordon would yield

Unbidden precedence in hall or in field.

When He musters his kinsmen, the best shall not fail

His standard to bow, and his bonnet to vail;
From a long line of chiefs his dominion began;
His vassals a host, and a people his clan.

Then sound me that pibroch the shrillest and best, Which woke, in Arroyos, the French from their

rest;

Then loud be your shout, as on Maida it rose O'er the clash of your claymores, your bayonets' close.

Tho' calm of demeanour, our spirits can glow
At the smile of a friend, or the scowl of a foe;
When his vessel approaches, yon mountain shall
ring

With the shout which we raise for our Chieftain and King.

HUMOROUS PIECES.

THE JEWESS AND HER SON.

DR WOLCOT.

POOR Mistress Levi had a luckless son,
'Who, rushing to obtain the foremost seat,
In imitation of th' ambitious great,

High from the gall'ry, ere the play begun,
He fell all plump into the pit,
Dead in a minute as a nit;

In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck;
Indeed, and very dreadful was the wreck !

The mother was distracted, raving, wild; Shriek'd, tore her hair, embrac'd, and kiss'd her child;

Afflicted ev'ry heart with grief around.

Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past,
And moderately calm the hysteric blast,

She cast about her eyes in thought profound;
And being with a saving knowledge blest,
She thus the playhouse manager addrest:
"Sher, I'm de moder of de poor Chew lad,
Dat meet mishfarten here so bad-

Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know,
Ass Moshes haf nat see de show."

THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

DR BYROM.

Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,
One took the other briskly by the hand:

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