Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When you kissed your lily hands to your lemans to-day;

And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers in the rocks

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate?

And the fingers that once were so busy with your blades?

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths?

Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down! down! forever down, with the mitre and the crown!

With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon of the Pope!

There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in Durham's stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends

his cope.

And she of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills,

And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's sword;

And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder

when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the houses and the word!

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

FOR Scotland's and for freedom's right
The Bruce his part had played,
In five successive fields of fight

Been conquered and dismayed; Once more against the English host His band he led, and once more lost

The meed for which he fought; And now from battle, faint and worn, The homeless fugitive forlorn

A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place For him who claimed a throne: His canopy, devoid of grace,

The rude, rough beams alone; The heather couch his only bed, Yet well I ween had slumber fled From couch of eider-down! Through darksome night till dawn of day, Absorbed in wakeful thought he lay Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam
Fell on that hapless bed,

And tinged with light each shapeless beam
Which roofed the lowly shed;
When, looking up with wistful eye,
The Bruce beheld a spider try

His filmy thread to fling

From beam to beam of that rude cot;
And well the insect's toilsome lot
Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times his gossamery thread
The wary spider threw ;
In vain the filmy line was sped,
For powerless or untrue

Each aim appeared, and back recoiled
The patient insect, six times foiled,

And yet unconquered still; And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, Saw him prepare once more to try

His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last!
The hero hailed the sign!
And on the wished-for beam hung fast
That slender, silken line;
Slight as it was, his spirit caught
The more than omen, for his thought
The lesson well could trace,
Which even "he who runs may read,"
That Perseverance gains its meed,
And Patience wins the race.

BERNARD ARTON.

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,
Likea 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!
O, 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 outspeeding, 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! 'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of

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 phials 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! "T is 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,

[These verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively, gathering

torn?

Ah no! for a darker departure is near;

their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded to in the ballad.]

His death-bell is tolling: O 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

LOCHIEL.

brae,

And the clan has a name that is nameless by day; Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Gather, gather, gather, etc.

Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo! Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach! Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc.

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,

her towers,

Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours:

We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, etc.

But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword! Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach! Courage, courage, courage, etc.

fame.

SCOTLAND.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

O CALEDONIA ! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child!
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

the eagles!

Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on

the river,

Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish forever! Come then, Grigalach! come then, Grigalach!

Come then, come then, come then, etc.

ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still, -
My country! and, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found,
Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy
clime

Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France
With all her vines; nor for Ausonia's groves
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.
To shake thy senate, and from height sublime
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task :
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart
As any thunderer there. And I can feel
Thy follies too; and with a just disdain
Frown at effeminates whose very looks
Reflect dishonor on the land I love.

Should England prosper, when such things, as smooth

And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er
With odors, and as profligate as sweet,
Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
And love when they should fight, when such as
these

Presume to lay their hand upon the ark
Of her magnificent and awful cause?
Time was when it was praise and boast enough
In every clime, and travel where we might,
That we were born her children. Praise enough
To fill the ambition of a private man,
That Chatham's language was his mother tongue,
And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.

WILLIAM COWPER.

RULE BRITANNIA!

WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,

This was the charter of the land,

And guardian angels sing the strain:
Rule Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never will be slaves.

The nations not so blest as thee,

Must, in their turn, to tyrants fall;

Whilst thou shalt flourish, great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Rule Britannia! etc.

Still more majestic shalt thou rise,

More dreadful from each foreign stroke; As the loud blasts that tear thy skies Serve but to root thy native oak. Rule Britannia! etc.

Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to hurl thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe- but thy renown.
Rule Britannia! etc.

To thee belongs the rural reign;

Thy cities shall with commerce shine; All thine shall be the subject main, And every shore encircle thine. Rule Britannia! etc.

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle with matchless beauty crowned,
And manly hearts to guard the fair.
Rule Britannia! etc.

JAMES THOMSON,

O, it's a snug little island!

A right little, tight little island! Search the globe round, none can be found So happy as this little island.

time,

In each saying, "This shall be my land"; Should the "" Army of England," or all it could bring, land,

We'd show 'em some play for the island.