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LOCHIEL'S WARNING,

They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?

'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning-no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave--
Culloden, that reeks with the blood of the brave!

LOCHIEL.

Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

WIZARD.

Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn?
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn !
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth

From his home in the dark-rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen out-speeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!

Ah! home let him speed,-for the spoiler is nigh.

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
O crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee to blast and to burn:
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

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For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood!

LOCHIEL.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan :
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one.
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock !
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array—

WIZARD.

-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal!
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold where he flies on his desolate path!

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight:
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!—
'Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn
Ah no! for a darker departure is near;

The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier;

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.

His death-bell is tolling: Oh! mercy, dispel
Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters, convulsed, in his quivering limbs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims!
Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet,

Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-

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LOCHIEL.

-Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale!

For never shall Albin a destiny meet

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat!

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame!

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

A

Lord Ullin's Daughter.

CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries," Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?”

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?"—

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, "I'll go, my chief-I 'm ready.— It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady."

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace ;
The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men—
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries;
'Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—

When, O! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

THE SANDS O' DEE.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing ;-

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter! Oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain :-the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Sands o' Dee.

"MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land

And never home came she.

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