PIBROCI of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew,

Summon Clao-Conuil. Come away, come away,

Hark to the summons ! Come in your war array,

Gentles and commons.

Hear what Highland Nora said,
« The Earlie's son I will not wed,
Should all the race of nature die,
And none be left but he and I.
For all the gold, for all the

Gear,
And all the lands both far and near,
That ever valour lost or won,
I would not wed the Earlie's son.»

Come from deep clen, and

From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon

Are at Inverlochy: Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade, and

Strong hand that bears one.

«A maiden's vows,» old Callum spoke,
« Are lightly made, and lightly broke;
The heather on the mountain's height
Begios to bloom in purple light;
The frost-wind soon shall sweep away
That lustre deep from glen and brae;
Yet Nora, ere its bloom be gone,
May blithely wed the Earlie's son.»
« The swan,» she said, « the lake's clear breast
May barter for the eagle's nest;
The Awe's fierce stream may backward turn,
Ben-Cruaichan fall, and crush kilehurn,
Our kilted clans, when blood is high,
Before their foes may turn and fly;
But I, were all these marvels done,
Would never wed the Earlie's son.»

Leave untended the herd,

The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterr'd,

The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer,

Leave nets and barges; Come with your fighting gear,

Broadswords and targes.

Still in the water-lily's shade
Her wonted nest the wild-swan made,
Ben-Cruaichan stauds as fast as ever,
Still downward foams the Awe's fierce river;
To shun the clash of foeman's steel,
No Highland brogue has turu'd the heel;
But Nora's heart is lost and won,
-- She's wedded to the Earlie's son!

Come as the winds come, when

forests are rended; Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

The Pibroch of Donald the Black.

"I will never go with him..

WACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous espedition. The minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, « Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon,» I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!» The piece is but 100 well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usuallv take leave of their native shore.

*T is blithe along the midnight lide,
With stalwart arm the boat to guide;
On high the dazzling blaze to rear,
And heedful plunge the barbed spear;
Rock, wood, and scaur, einerging bright,
Fling on the stream their ruddy light,
And from the bank our band appears
Like genii, arm'd with fiery spears.

'T is blithe at eve to tell the tale,
llow we succeed, and how we fall,
Whether at Alwyn's · Jordly" meal,
Or lowlier board of Ashestiel ; ?
While the gay tapers cheerly shine,
Bickers the fire, and flows the winc-
Days free from thought, and nights from care,
My blessing on the forest fair!

MacLeod's wizard flag from the gray

castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoord are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver, As vackrimmon 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!

THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW-HILL.

Air-Riimhin aluin 'stu mo run.

- Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping;
Farewell the bright cyes in the Dun that are weeping;
To each minstrel delusion, farewell !--and for ever-
Nackrimmon departs, to return 10 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!

The air, composed by the Editor of Albyn's Anthology.

The words written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

• Too oft shall the notes of Mackrimmon's bewailing
Be beard 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 ull, cha till sin tuille,
Ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon!»

Tue sun upon the Weirdlaw-hill,

In Ettrick's vale, is sinking sweet ; The westland wind is bush and still,

The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye

Bears those bright hues that once it bore; Though evening, with her richest dye,

Flames o'er the hills of Eurick's shiore.

With listless look along the plain,

I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane

Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air,

The lull, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were,

Or is the dreary change in me?

Alas, the warp'd and broken board,

How can it bear the painter's dye!
The harp of strain d and tundless chord,

How to the miosirel's skill reply!
To aching cyes each landscape lowers,

To feverislı pulse each gale blows chill; And Araby's or Eden's bowers

Were barren as this moorland hill.

Along the silver streams of Tweed,
'Tis blithe the mimic tly to lead,
When to the hook the salmon springs,
And the line whistles through the rings;

1. We returp po more..

• Written after a week's shooting and fishing, in which the poet had been eagaged with some friends.

"Abuyn, the seat of the Lord Somerville, now, alas! uotenanted, by the lamented death of that kind and hospitable nobleman, the autbor's Dearest neighbour and intimate friend, · Ashestiel, the poet's residence at that time.

60

THE MAID OF ISLA.

Air-The Maid of Isla. Written for Mr George Thomson's Scottish Melodies.

THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH.

Air-Yondaith Mionge. Written for Mr George Thomson's Welch Melodies.

O MAID of Isla, from the cliff,

That looks on troubled wave and sky, Dost thou noi see you Jittle skiff

Contend with ocean gallantly? Now beating 'gainst the breeze and surge,

And stecp'd her leeward deck in foam, Why does she war unequal urge?

O Isla's maid, she seeks her home.

Ethelrid, or Olfrid, King of Northumberland, baring besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring monastery of Bangor marched in proces sion, to pray for the success of their countrymen. Bar the Britisha being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, aud destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.

O Isla's maid, yon sea-bird mark,

Her white wing gleams through mist and spray, Against the storm-clad, louring dark,

As to the rock she wheels away ; Where clouds are dark and billows rave,

Why to the shelter should she come Of cliff, exposed to wind and wave?-

O maid of Isla, 't is her home.

When the heather trumpet's clang
Round beleaguer'd Chester rang,
Veiled nun and friar gray
Marchi'd from Bangor's fair abbaye :
High their holy anthem sounds,
Cestria's vale the hymo rebounds,
Floating down the sylvan Dee,

O miserere, Domine!

As breeze and tide to yonder skiff,

Thou 'rt adverse to the suit I bring, And cold as is

yon wintery cliff, Where sea-birds close their wearied wing. Yet cold as rock, unkiod as wave,

Still, Isla's maid, to thee I come; For in tlıy love, or in his grave,

Must Allan Vourich find his home.