Ah! base-hearted treach'ry has doom'd our undoing,-
My poor bleeding country, what more can I do?
Ev'n Valour looks pale o'er the red field of ruin,

And Freedom beholds her best warriors laid low.

his theme required. Be it remembered, that it was no less than the anguish of a fearless and unshaken patriot bewailing the ruins of his native land, and breathing revenge against the insulting and cruel invader, which the poet wished to express-that it was no less than all the noble workings of passion in the bosom of the unsubdued, incorruptible, heroic and godlike Wallace, which the poet attempted to embody in words. It was no common strain he chose, and it required no common power of execution to perform it well. We do not mean to say, these are the very best verses which could have been writ. ten on such a subject; we only rejoice that they are so excellent as they are, and will have the effect, though it should be in never so partial a degree of preserving, and extending the glory of our national Champion.

The battle of Fallark, in its consequences so fatal to the Scots, was fought on the 22d of July 8. It was obstinately contested for a long time, but the superiority of the English in the number of their cavalry, decided the day. Some historians alledge, that this defeat happened in consequence of the little piques and jealousies which at that time subsisted amongst the leaders of the Scottish army; but this is merely conjectural. The English authors are unanimous in their praises of the firmness and courage displayed by their ene mies on that occasion. Langtoft gives a curious description of the mode in which the Scottish phalanx sustained the onset:

Ther formast courey, ther bakkis togidere sette,
Ther speres poynt over poynt, so fare and so thikke,

And fast togidere joynt, to se it was ferlike.

Als a castelle thei stode, that were walled with stone,
Thei wende ne man of blode thorgh theim suld haf gone.

The life of Wallace is minutely detailed in the metrical work of Henry the Minstrel, better known by the name of Blind Harry, which, with all its chronological inaccuracies and romantic fictions, must still be considered as forming a part of authentic history. A splendid monument, we understand, will within a short time, be raised to the memory of the Knight of Ellerslie, at Glasgow. On the 10th of March last, a meeting for this purpose was held in the town hall of that city, and there is every probability that the monument, when it is erected, will not only redound to the honour of the country, but be worthy of the great patriot, whom it is intended to commemorate.

Farewell, ye dear partners of peril!-farewell!
Tho' buried ye lie in one wide bloody grave,
Your deeds shall ennoble the place where you fell,

And your names be enroll❜d with the sons of the brave. But I, a poor outcast, in exile must wander,

Perhaps, like a traitor, ignobly must die!

On thy wrongs, O my country! indignant I ponder—
Ah! woe to the hour when thy Wallace must fly!

CXC.

SANG IN PRAIS OF SCHIR WILYAM WALLAS,

KNIGHT OF ELRISLE, AND CAMPIOÚN OF SCOTLAND +.

Ovir Castell and Towre, ovir Citie and Toune,

Flew the pennonis of Ingland tryumphandli waivand; Our Lyoun was gyvit and our Thrissill duschit down,

Nae mair in the field the fers fae wer thai braivand.

+ This song is extracted from an Album Rerum Scoticarum, belonging to Mr. James Duncan, Jun. Bookseller Saltmarket, Glasgow-a gentleman well known amongst his friends for his warm attachment to the antiquities and li

Allace! all the fire of our forbearis had fled,
And Freedom's fair form was all manglt and deid.

But a beme frae the West lyke ane flaucht o' the sun,
Ere he dernis in the braid sea's blew busome for evir,
Brast owre the mirk kynrik fell tiranny won,

Revivand ittis spreit and devoirand ittis Reifar.
That beme was the flasch frae the suerd o' the free,
Quhilk hung birnest and shene in thi hallis Ellerslie!

In grit joyaunce the rerd of the bugill yrung ;
Throch the holtis, wuddis, and wildis the deip war cry

was roll'd,

And hie to the blast the braid banner was flung,

Quhilk bure the red Lyoun all rampand in gold

To the stryff, quhar the three Libbartis stalwartli stude,
There, to bathe his bricht mane and his fangis in thair blude,

Quha raisit owre bauld standart? quha drew the steill glaive? Quha redd this braid yle frae oppressour and fae?

terature of his native land, and distinguished more especially for the zeal and activity, with which he first set on foot the subscriptions for the monument now proposed to be erected in Glasgow, to the great and illustrious chief, whose name and atchievements are embalmed in the memory of every Scots. man. As it is written in our vernacular tongue, though rather of an antique date, we consider it unnecessary to subjoin any glossary to such words as are become obsolete, because, with them, we think it behoves all our countrymen to be conversant. An allusion is made to the arms of Scotland, which is wellknown was the Lion rampant Gules in a field Or, within a tressure azure; those of England in the time of Edward I. Three leopards passant, which, according to the use of all the old Scottish poets are termed libbartis.

It was Wallas, the flowre of Scottis Chevalre draive

The Suthroun to deid in the battailis deray.

He ruschit on to gloir sempiterne, and to save
His King, and his Countre, he rushit to the--grave!

CXCI.

AMID LOCH CATRINE'S SCENERY WILD.

AIR-The Lass o' Arranteenie.

Amid Loch Cat'rine's scenery wild,
Is seen my lassie's dwelling,
Where cavern'd rocks on mountains pil'd,

Howl to the sea-breeze swelling:

She's purer, than the snaw that fa's

On mountain's summit airy;

The sweetest mountain flow'r that blaws,
Is not so fair as Mary.

'Tis sweet when woodland echo rings,
Where purling streams meander,
But sweeter when my Mary sings,
As thro' the glens we wander.
The wild deer on the mountain side,
The fabl'd Elf or Fairy,

Or skiff, that skims the chrystal tide,
Moves not more light than Mary.

From Lowland plains I've wander'd far,
In endless search of pleasure;
Till guided by some friendly star,

I found this lovely treasure.
Altho' my native home has charms,

Amang these hills I'll tarry;

And while life's blood my bosom warms,

I'll love my dearest Mary.

CXCII.

A MOMENT PAUSE, YE BRITISH FAIR .

A moment pause, ye British fair,

While pleasure's phantom ye pursue;

Composed by a lady, on seeing in a list of new music, "The Waterloo Waltz."