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That all around are rising fast
From slumbers that may be their last;
I know him by his Highland plaid,
Long borne in foray and in raid,
His scarf all splash'd with dust and gore,
His nodding plume and broad claymore;
I know him by that eagle eye,
Where foemen read their destiny;
I know him by that iron brow,
That frowns not, burns not, quails not now,
Though life and death are with the ray
That redly dawns upon to-day.
Woe to the wretch whose single might
Copes with dark Allan in the fight;
He knows not mercy—knows not fear;
The pibroch has to Allan's ear
A clearer and a sweeter note
Than mellow strains that blithely float
From lyre or lute, in courtly throng,
Where Beauty smiles upon the song.
Of artful wiles against his foe
Nothing he knows or cares to know;
Far less he recks of polish'd arts,
The batteries in the siege of hearts.
And hence the minions of the ton,
While fair and foolish dames look on,
Laugh at old Allan's aukward bow,
His stern address, and haughty brow.
Laugh they ?--when sounds the hollow drum,
And banded legions onward come,
And life is won by ready sword,
By strength to strike, and skill to ward,
Those tongues, so brave in woman's war,
Those cheeks unstain’d by scratch or scar,
Shall owe their safety in the fight
To hoary Allan's arm of might.

Close to the clansman's side is seen
Dame Fortune's soldier, James M'Lean.
I know him well-no novice he
In warfare's murderous theory;
Amidst the battle's various sound,
While bullets flew like hail around,
M‘Lean was born; in scenes like this
He past his earliest hours of bliss:
Cradled in war, the fearless child
Look'd on the scene of blood, and smild;

Toy'd with the sabre of the Blues,
Long ere he knew its hellish use;
His little fingers lov’d to feel
The bayonet's bright point of steel,
Or made his father's helmet ring
With beating up—“ God save the King."
Those hours of youthful glee are fled;
The thin grey hairs are on his head;
Of youth's hot current nought remains
Within the ancient warrior's veins.
Yet, when he hears the battle-cry,
His spirit beats as wild and high
As on the day that saw him wield
His virgin sword in battle-field;
The eve on which his comrades found him,
With England's colours wrapt around him,
His face turn’d upwards, and his hand
Still twin’d around his trusty brand,
As, spent with wounds, and weak with toil,
He lay upon the bloody soil.
E'en now, though swift advancing years
Might well decline this life of fears,
Though the deep scars upon his breast
Show claim to honourable rest,
He will not quit what time has made
His joy, his habit, and his trade.
He envies not the peasant's lot,
His cheerful hearth, and humble cot;
Encampments have to him become
As constant, and as dear a home.

Such are the hearts of steel, whom War Binds in their cradle to his car, And leaves them in their latter day, With honour, medals, and half-pay, Burthen'd with all the cares of life, Repentance-asthma--and a wife.

And what am I who thus can choose Such subject for so light a muse? Who wake the smile, and weave the rhyme, In such a scene, at such a time. Mary! whose pure and holy kiss Is still a cherish'd dream of bliss, When last I saw thy bright blue eye, And heard thy voice of melody,

And felt thy timid mild caress,
I was all hope--all joyousness!
We parted—and the morrow's sun-
Oh God! my bliss was past and done;
The lover's hope, the husband's vow-
Where were they then ?-ah! where wert thou?

Mary! thou vision lov'd and wept,
Long years have past since thou hast slept,
Removed from gaze of mortal eye,
The dreamless sleep of those that die.
Long years !—yet has not past away
The memory of that fatal day,
When all thy young and faded grace
Before me lay in Death's embrace.

A throb of madness and of pain Shot through my heart, and through my brain ; I felt it then, I feel it now, Though time is stamp'd upon my brow; Though all my veins grow cold with age, And o'er my memory's fading page Oblivion draws her damning line, And blots all images-save thine.

Thou left'st me—and I did become
An alien from my house and home;
A phantom in life's busy dream;
A bubble on misfortune's stream;
Condemn'd through varying scenes to rove,
With nought to hope,-and nought to love;
No inward motive, that can give
Or fear to die, or wish to live.

Away, away! Death rides the breeze!
There is no time for thoughts like these ;
Hark! from the foeman's distant camp
I hear their charger's sullen tramp;
On! valiant Britons, to the fight !
On! for St. George, and England's right!
Green be the laurel-bright the meed,
Of those that shine in martial deed !
Short be the pang-swift pass the breath,
Of those that die a Soldier's death!

To the Editor of the Etonian. Sir, I should think that no one unless he is a misanthrope, or a methodist, which is little better, can pass through Eton without being amused at the various looks, sizes, and occupations of the motley group of which that Lilliputian world is composed. Methinks I hear one of them say, in all the dignity of offended pride, “Softly, Mr.

5, not so Lilliputian ; there are A-T-, SE -, six feet high; and I myself, though far from being one of the biggest, would easily chastise you for your impertinence.” Boys still they all are, and boyish are their habits. I hope, however, I shall not be known as the author of these opinions, or the next time I visit Eton I shall meet with a sorry reception. Whether it is that my countenance is not very repulsive, my dress not very extraordinary, and my appearance on the whole not singular, I passed through the Quadrangle, (as it happened) particularly crowded, without being so much quizzed as I expected; for, after the alarming stories which I had heard of the practical jokes of Etonians, it required no small resolution to encounter the mirth of such a formidable body of humourists. Once, to be sure, I heard a whisper, remarking it as very odd that I should wear gaiters under my trowsers ; and a second time, when I happened to turn round on a sudden, I surprised a circle of dashing young fellows laughing at my look behind, where I suppose the cut of my coat was not according to the newest fashion. Some of them I recognised as old acquaintances, having seen them the evening before parading on the Terrace of Windsor Castle. The approaching school hour did not appear at all to have changed or saddened their looks, for they were laughing, quizzing, and fitting about, exactly in the way which first attracted my attention on the Royal Promenade. They all had books, some very gay ones, others such as hardly deserved the name, an inconsistency which I was at a loss to reconcile, unless it were that the first mentioned had caught the infection of their master's finery. Here and there a cluster of Collegers, with their black gowns, had a good effect among the

many varied colours which the greater proportion displayed : indeed I am so far bigotted that I never could have imagined a place of learning without some such classical costume. It was not easy to mistake the settled step, the sedate demeanour, and the pallid and rather sickly hue, which marked the countenances of those boys, whom, for the want of a more expressive name, with which I dare say the Eton vocabulary could supply me, I shall call the studious-such as I could picture to myself never mixing in the sports of their schoolfellows, and preferring a problem of Euclid to the finest game at cricket ever contested. Many of the lesser tribe appeared to be extremely busy in construing their lessons, and comparing their notes as the time of purgatory grew nearer. Two or three seemed to be looked upon as a sort of oracles whom they all assailed with different interrogations. I was almost tempted to ask a question of one of the nearest of them, when the clock struck, and they all hurried away at the same instant to different entrances, and, in less than five minutes, the area was cleared, and the cloisters were silent. There are some associations connected with the sight of a school, particularly a large one, which always bring me back to the time of my boyhood, and recal to my recollection so strongly what I did, and what I thought, in former days, that I fancied myself, in this instance, nearly thirty years younger, and seemed almost transported again to the rule of my ancient Orbilius. I must confess that my situation at that time, both in point of happiness and liberty, was very different from that of an Etonian. The walls were my boundaries; and merely to pass them, without any consequent misdemeanor, was reckoned among the heaviest of those crimes to which the wisdom of the legislative founder had allotted punishments. This place of my education I always considered as a better sort of prison, and left it with all the joy that a prisoner would feel on obtaining his Habeas Corpus, except on stated occasions, when, preceded by our master, we walked in due order and regularity up a high green hill, at a short distance off, famous for its having been formerly the station of a Roman camp. Well do I recollect how often I unwillingly encountered the cold frosty air of a winter morning on this bleak


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