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Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
• I'll go, my chief,- I'm ready :It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:
• And by my word, the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'—
By this the storm grew
apace, The water-wraith was shrieking, And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
« Oh! haste thee, haste ! the lady cries,
Though tempest round us gather ; I'll meet the raging of the skies ;
But not an angry
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her ;
The tempest gathered o'er her.
And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing :
His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed through storm and shade,
His child he did discover :
And one was round her lover.
• Come back ! come back ! he cried in grief,
• Across this stormy water : And I'll forgive your Highland chief ;
My daughter !-oh, my daughter !
'Twas vain : the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing :-
BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE,
WHO FELL AT THE BATTLE OF CORUNNA, 1809.
Not a drum was heard,—not a funeral note,
While his corse to the ramparts was hurried: Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot, O'er the
where our hero was buried!
We buried him darkly, at dead of night,
The sods with our bayonets turning,
And the lantern dimly burning.-
No useless coffin inclosed his breast,
Nor in sheet nor in shroud we bound him, But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.
Few and short were the prayers we said,
And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we stedfastly gazed on the face of the dead
And we bitterly thought of the morrow.
We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed,
And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head,
And we far away on the billow !
Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone,
And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him ;
In the grave where a Briton has laid him.
But half of our heavy task was done,
When the clock tolled the hour for retiring ; And we heard the distant and random gun
Of the enemy sullenly firing.
Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory :
ON A TOMBSTONE IN CHESHIRE.
O stranger ! let no ill-timed tear
Why mourn ?-since freed from human ill,
The shattered bark, from adverse winds Here her last anchor drops, and finds Safe, where life's storms no more molest A haven of untroubled rest !
Then, stranger !-let no ill-timed tear,