For the lands of wide Breadelbane

Not a man who heard him speak Would that day have left the battle. Burning eye and flushing cheek Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,

And they harder drew their breath; For their souls were strong within them, Stronger than the grasp of death. Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet Sounding in the Pass below, And the distant tramp of horses, And the voices of the foe:

Down we crouched amid the brachen, Till the Lowland ranks drew near, Panting like the hounds in summer, When they scent the stately deer. From the dark defile emerging,

Next we saw the squadrons come, Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers Marching to the tuck of drum; Through the scattered wood of birches, O'er the broken ground and heath, Wound the long battalion slowly,

Till they gained the plain beneath; Then we bounded from our covert. Judge how looked the Saxons then, When they saw the rugged mountain Start to life with armèd men! Like a tempest down the ridges Swept the hurricane of steel, Rose the slogan of Macdonald, —

Flashed the broadsword of Lochiell!

F

Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band-
On we poured until we met them,

Foot to foot, and hand to hand.

Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling

In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us
Living foe there tarried none

On the field of Killiecrankie,

When that stubborn fight was done!

And the evening star was shining
On Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
There we found him gashed and gory,

Stretched upon the cumbered plain,

As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,

For within his dying ear

Pealed the joyful note of triumph,

And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:

So, amidst the battle's thunder,

Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,

In the glory of his manhood

Passed the spirit of the Græme!

-W. E. AYTOUN.

7.

LAMENT FOR FLODDEN.

I've heard them lilting at our ewe-milking,
Lasses a' lilting before dawn o' day;

But now they are moaning on ilka green loaning —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At bughts, in the morning, nàe blythe lads are scorning,
Lasses are lonely and dowie and wae;

Nae daffin', nae gabbin', but sighing and sabbing,
Ilk ane lifts her leglin, and hies her away.

In har'st, at the shearing, nae youths now are jeering,
Bandsters are lyart, and runkled, and grey;
At fair or at preaching, nae wooing, nae fleeching —
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

At e'en, in the gloaming, nae younkers are roaming
'Bout stacks wi' the lasses at bogle to play;
But ilk ane sits drearie, lamenting her dearie -
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

Dool and wae for the order, sent our lads to the Border! The English, for ance, by guile wan the day;

The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land, are cauld in the clay.

We'll hear nae mair lilting at the ewe-milking;
Women and bairns are heartless and wae;
Sighing and moaning on ilka green loaning
The Flowers of the Forest are a' wede away.

- JANE ELLIOTT.

8.

BONNIE GEORGE CAMPBELL.

SCOTTISH BALLAD.

HIGH upon Highlands,
And low upon Tay,
Bonnie George Campbell

Rode out on a day,
Saddled and bridled,

And gallant to see:
Hame cam' his gude horse,
But hame came not he.

Out ran his auld mither,
Greeting full sair;
Out ran his bonnie bride

Reaving her hair.

He rode saddled and bridled,
Wi' boots to the knee:
Hame cam' his gude horse,
But never cam' he.

"My meadow lies green,
And my corn is unshorn,
My barn is unbuilt,

And my babe is unborn!"
He rode saddled and bridled,

Careless and free:

Hame cam' his gude horse,

And never cam' he.

9.

THE BATTLE OF IVRY.

Now glory to the Lord of hosts, from whom all glories are!

And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre!

Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters,

Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters.

As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy

walls annoy.

Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of

war,

Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and King Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when at the dawn of day

We saw the army of the League drawn out in long

array;

With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers, And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish

spears.

There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land!

And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his

hand!