Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, &c.
Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
Landless, landless, landless, &c.
But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord,
MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
Courage, courage, courage, &c.
If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach !
Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c.
While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach!
Come then, come then, come then, &c.
Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt.
Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
Gather, gather, gather, &c.
THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL.
AIR-"Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run."
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ETHELFRID, or OLFRID, King of Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success
of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heather vie put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have bee played at their ill-omened procession.
WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar
gray
March'd from Bangor's fair Abbaye;
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymn rebounds,
Floating down the silvan Dee,
O miserere, Domine!
On the long procession goes,
Glory round their crosses glows,
And the Virgin-mother mild
In their peaceful banner smiled;
Who could think such saintly band
Doom'd to feel unhallow'd hand?
Such was the Divine decree,
O miserere, Domine!
Bands that masses only sung,
Hands that censers only swung,
Met the northern bow and bill,
Heard the war-cry wild and shrill :
Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand,
Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand,
Woe to Saxon cruelty,
O miserere, Domine!
Weltering amid warriors slain,
Spurn'd by steeds with bloody mane
Slaughter'd down by heathen black,
Bangor's peaceful monks are laid:
Word of parting rest unspoke,
Mass unsung, and bread unbroke;
For their souls for charity,
Sing, O miserere, Domine
Bangor o'er the murder wail!
Long thy ruins told the tale,
Shatter'd towers and broken arch
Long recall'd the woeful march:
On thy shrine no tapers burn,
Never shall thy priests return;
The pilgrim sighs and sings for thee,
O miserere, Domint
MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT.
AIR-" Cha till mi tuille."
[1818.]
Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to tne Laird of Macleod, is said to have e
posed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and danger.
expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event vent
that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic wo
"Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon,” “I shall re¦
return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!"
piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emig
from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.
MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the grey castle sallies,
The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys;
Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver,
As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Dunvegan for ever!
Farewell to each cliff, on which breakers are foaming;
Farewell, each dark glen, in which red-deer are roaming;
Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river;
Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never!
"Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell!-and for ever-
Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never !
The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me,
The pall of the dead for a mantle hangs o'er me;
But my heart shall not flag, and my nerves shall not shiver,
Though devoted I go-to return again never!
"Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
Be heard when the Gael on their exile are sailing;
Dear land! to the shores, whence unwilling we sever,
Return-return-return shall we never!
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille!
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Cha till, cha till, cha till sin tuille,
Gea thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon!"
DONALD CAIRD'S COME AGAIN.
AIR-"Malcolm Caird's come again."
[1818.]
DONALD CAIRD'S come again! Donald Caird's come again! Tell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again! onald Caird can lilt and sing, lithely dance the Hieland fling, rink till the gudeman be blind, leech till the gudewife be kind; Loop a leglin, clout a pan, or crack a pow wi' ony man; 'ell the news in brugh and glen, Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird can wire a maukin,
Kens the wiles o' dun-deer staukin',
eisters kipper, makes a shift
`o shoot a muir-fowl in the drift;
Vater-bailiffs, rangers, keepers,
le can wauk when they are sleepers ;
Tot for bountith or reward
Dare ye mell wi' Donald Caird.
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Gar the bagpipes hum amain,
Donald Caird's come again.
Donald Caird can drink a gill
'ast as hostler-wife can fill;
Ika ane that sells gude liquor
Lens how Donald bends a bicker;
When he's fou he's stout and saucy,
Keeps the cantle o' the cawsey;
Hieland chief and Lawland laird
Maun gie room to Donald Caird!
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Tell the news in brugh and glen,
Donald Caird's come again.
Steek the amrie, lock the kist,
Else some gear may weel be mist;
Donald Caird finds orra things
Where Allan Gregor fand the tings;
Dunts of kebbuck, taits o' woo,
Whiles a hen and whiles a sow,
Webs or duds frae hedge or yard-
'Ware the wuddie, Donald Caird!
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Dinna let the Shirra ken
Donald Caird's come again.
On Don ld Caird the doom was stern,
Craig to tether, legs to airn;
But Donald Caird wi' mickle study,
Caught the gift to cheat the wuddie;
Rings of airn, and bolts of steel,
Fell like ice frae hand and heel!
Watch the sheep in fauld and glen,
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Donald Caird's come again!
Dinna let the Justice ken
Donald Caird's come again.
ON ETTRICK FOREST'S MOUNTAINS DUN.
ON Ettrick Forest's mountains dun, 'Tis blithe to hear the sportsman's gun, And seek the heath-frequenting brood Far through the noonday solitude; By many a cairn and trenched mound, Where chiefs of yore sleep lone and sound,
And springs, where grey-hair'd shepherds tell,
That still the fairies love to dwell.
Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'Tis blithe the mimic fly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;
The boiling eddy see him try,
Then dashing from the current high,
Till watchful eye and cautious hand
Have led his wasted strength to land.
'Tis blithe along the midnight tide.
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed sper:
Rock, wood, and scaur, emerging brig
Fling on the stream their ruddy ligh
And from the bank our band appear
Like Genii, arm'd with fiery spears.
'Tis blithe at eve to tell the tale,
How we succeed, and how we fail,
Whether at Alywn's lordly meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel;
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the wine-
Days free from thought, and nights
My blessing on the Forest fair!
THE MAID OF ISLA.
AIR-"The Maid of Isla."
WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S SCOTTISH MELODIES.
Oн, Maid of Isla, from the cliff,
That looks on troubled wave and sky,
Dost thou not see yon little skiff
Contend with ocean gallantly?
Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,
And steep'd her leeward deck in foam,
Why does she war unequal urge?—
Oh, Isla's maid, she seeks her home.
Oh, Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark, Her white wing gleams through mist
and spray, Against the storm-cloud, lowering dark, As to the rock she wheels away;—
Where clouds are dark and billows ran Why to the shelter should she com Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave!Oh, maid of Isla, 'tis her home!
As breeze and tide to yonder skiff. Thou'rt adverse to the suit I bring And cold as is yon wintry cliff,
Where sea-birds close their wear wing.
Yet cold as rock, unkind as wave, Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come, For in thy love, or in his grave,
Must Allan Vourich find his hom
ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me,
At the close of the evening through woodlands to roam,
Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me
Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home.
Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild speaking
The language alternate of rapture and woe:
Oh! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are breaking,
The pang that I feel at our parting can know.
Each joy thou couldst double, and when there came sorrow,
Or pale disappointment to darken my way,
What voice was like thine, that could sing of to-morrow,
Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day!
But when friends drop around us in life's weary waning,
The grief, Queen of Numbers, thou canst not assuage;
Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remaining,
The languor of pain, and the chillness of age.
'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewailing,
To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain,
And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing,
And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ;
As vain thy enchantments, O Queen of wild Numbers,
To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er,
And the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers-
Farewell, then, Enchantress ;-I meet thee no more.
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