XXIV. DIRGE OF A HIGHLAND CHIEF *, Who was executed after the Rebellion. Son of the mighty and the free, Lov'd leader of the faithful brave, Was it for high-rank'd chief like thee To fill a nameless grave? Oh! hadst thou slumbered with the slain; We then had mourn'd thee not. But darkly clos'd thy morn of fame, The watch-word of despair; Yet oh, if gallant spirit's power, Has e'er ennobled death like thine, Then glory mark'd thy parting hour, Last of a mighty line. This feeling and pathetic dirge was composed by a young gentleman, reading immediately after its first appearance, the well known work, entitl "Waverley." It was then forwarded to the supposed author, requesting, if should approve, and under his correction, that it might be inserted in t future editions of that celebrated Novel. The individual, however, to who was addressed, being wholly unconnected with the work referred to, a ong no influence to obtain a place for it there, it was judged prop O'er thy own bowers the sunshine falls, Are sleeping on thy tomb. Spring on thy mountains laughs the while, But the lov'd scenes may vainly smile, On thy blue hills no bugle sound Thou lead'st the chase no more. Thy gates are clos'd, thy halls are still, Those halls where swell'd the choral strain, They hear the wild winds murmuring shrill, And all is hush'd again. Thy Bard his pealing harp has broke; One lay to mourn thy fate he woke, His saddest and his last. No other theme to him is dear Than lofty deeds of thine; Hush'd be the strain thou can'st not hear Last of a mighty line. both to preserve the song itself from oblivion, and that the real author of Waverley might be aware of the honour which was thus intended him, to send it for publication to the Edinburgh Annual Register. From that work we have taken the liberty now to extract it, convinced that our readers will derive that pleasure from its perusal, which we conceive it so well calculated to afford. D XXV. MONIMIA The bell had toll'd the midnight hour, With soft and trembling steps, the maid A tear-drop glisten'd on her cheek, Cold blew the blast, the yew tree shook, The wand'ring moon had sunk to rest, Monimia's cheek grew deadly pale, While oft she press'd her lover's grave, XXVI. AND MAUN I STILL ON MENIE DOAT. AIR-Johnny's gray breeks. Again rejoicing nature sees Her robe assume its vernal hues, And maun I still on Menie doat? And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? In vain to me the cowslips blaw, In vain to me, in glen or shaw, The merry plowboy cheers his team, And maun I still, &c. The wanton coot the water skims, The shepherd steeks his faulding slap, I meet him on the dewy hill. And when the lark, 'tween light and dark, Come, Winter, with thy angry howl, And, raging, bend the naked tree; Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, When nature is all sad like me. And maun I still, &c. |