The moon looks through the drifting storm,
But the troubled lake reflects not her form,
For the waves roll whitening to the land,
And dash against the shelvy strand.

There is a voice among the trees

That mingles with the groaning oakThat mingles with the stormy breeze,

And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood,

The voice of the bard in fitful mood;

His song was louder than the blast,

As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past.

"Wake ye from your sleep of death,

Minstrels and bards of other days! For the midnight wind is on the heath, And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: The spectre with his bloody hand,* Is wandering through the wild woodland; The owl and the raven are mute for dread, And the time meet to awake the dead!

"Souls of the mighty, wake and say,

To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way,

And on your shores her Norsemen flung?
Her Norsemen train'd to spoil and blood,
Skill'd to prepare the raven's food,
All by your harpings doom'd to die
On bloody Largs and Loncarty.t

"Mute are ye all: No murmurs strange
Upon the midnight breeze sail by;
Nor through the pines with whistling change,
Mimic the harp's wild harmony!
Mute are ye now ?-Ye ne'er were mute,
When Murder with his bloody foot,
And Rapine with his iron hand,
Were hovering near yon mountain strand.

"O yet awake the strain to tell,

By every deed in song enroll'd,
By every chief who fought or fell,

For Albion's weal in battle bold;-
From Coilgach,‡ first who rolled his car,
Through the deep ranks of Roman war,
To him, of veteran memory dear,
Who victor died on Aboukir.

"By all their swords, by all their scars,
By all their names, a mighty spell!
By all their wounds, by all their wars,
Arise, the mighty strain to tell!
Fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain,
More impious than the heathen Dane,
More grasping than all-grasping Rome,
Gaul's ravening legions hither come!"-

The wind is hush'd, and still the lake-
Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears,
Bristles my hair, my sinews quake,

At the dread voice of other years

"When targets clash'd, and bugles rung,
And blades round warriors' heads were flung,
The foremost of the band were we,
And hymn'd the joys of Liberty!"

ROMANCE OF DUNOIS.

FROM THE FRENCH.

THE original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the style of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal.

Ir was Dunois, the young and brave,
Was bound for Palestine,

But first he made his orison

Before Saint Mary's shrine:

"And grant, immortal queen of heaven," Was still the soldier's prayer,

"That I may prove the bravest knight, And love the fairest fair."

His oath of honour on the shrine

He graved it with his sword, And follow'd to the Holy Land

The banner of his lord;

Where, faithful to his noble vow,
His war-cry fill'd the air,

"Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair."

They owed the conquest to his arm,
And then his liege lord said,
"The heart that has for honour beat,
By bliss must be repaid ;--
My daughter Isabel and thou
Shall be a wedded pair,
For thou art bravest of the brave,
She fairest of the fair."

And then they bound the holy knot
Before Saint Mary's shrine,
That makes a paradise on earth,
If hearts and hands combine :
And every lord and lady bright

That were in chapel there,
Cried, "Honour'd be the bravest knight,
Beloved the fairest fair!"

THE TROUBADOUR.

GLOWING with love, on fire for fame,
A Troubadour that hated sorrow,
Beneath his lady's window came,
And thus he sung his last good morrow:

"My arm it is my country's right,
My heart is in my truelove's bower;
Gayly for love and fame to fight

Befits the gallant Troubadour."

And while he march'd with helm on head
And harp in hand, the descant rung,
As faithful to his favourite maid,

The minstrel burden still he sung: "My arm it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour."

E'en when the battle-roar was deep,

With dauntless heart he hew'd his way "Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay: "My life it is my country's right,

My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

Alas! upon the bloody field

He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still, reclining on his shield,

Expiring sung th' exulting stave: "My life it my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight,

Becomes the valiant Troubadour."

CARLE, NOW THE KING'S COME.*
BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING.

THE news has flown frae mouth to mouth;
The north for ance has bang'd the south;
The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth,

Carle, now the king's come.

CHORUS.

Carle, now the king's come!
Carle, now the king's come!
Thou shalt dance and I will sing,
Carle, now the king's come!

Auld England held him lang and fast;
And Ireland had a joyfu' cast;
But Scotland's turn has come at last-
Carle, now the king's come!

Auld Reikie, in her rokela gray,
Thought never to have seen the day;
He's been a weary time away

But, Carle, now the king's come!

She's skirling frae the Castle Hill,
The carline's voice is grown sae shrill,
Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill,

Carle, now the king's come!

"Up, bairns," she cries, " baith great and sma',

And busk ye for the weapon shaw !

Stand by me and we'll bang them a'!

Carle, now the king's come!

Come, from Newbattle's ancient spires, Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, And match the mettle of your sires, Carle, now the king's come!

"You're welcome hame, my Montague !+ Bring in your hand the young. Buccleugh ;— I'm missing some that I may rue,

Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Haddington, the kind and gay,
You've graced my causeway mony a day;
I'll weep the cause if you should stay,
Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, premier duke, and carry doun,
Frae yonder craigs his ancient croun;
It's had a lang sleep and a soun'-

But, Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Athole, from the hill and wood,
Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud-
Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood,-
Carle, now the king's come!

Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Come, Hopetoun, fear'd on fields of death; Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Come, Roseberry, from Dalmeny shades; Breadalbane, bring your belted plaids;

Carle, now the king's come!

"Come, stately Niddrie, auld and true,
Girt with the sword that Minden knew ;
We have ower few such lairds as you--
Carle, now the king's come!

"King Arthur's grown a common crier,
He's heard in Fife and far Cantire,-
'Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire!'¶
Carle, now the king's come!
"Saint Abb roars out, I see him pass
Between Tantallon and the Bass!'-
Calton,** get on your keeking-glass,

Carle, now the king's come !"
The carline stopp'd; and sure I am,
For very glee had ta'en a dwam,
But Oman help'd her to a dram.—
Cogie, now the king's come!

Cogie, now the king's come!
Cogie, now the king's come!
I'se be four and ye's be toom,
Cogie, now the king's come!

Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble-looking old man, and

a fine specimen of an ancient baron.

There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat. **The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the

iously looking for the royal squadron.

3

JW