Then might you say, in raptures meet,

No song was ever half so sweet!

It nerves the arm of warrior wight
To deeds of more than mortal might;
"Twill make the maid, in all her charms,
Fall weeping in her lover's arms;

"Twill charm the mermaid from the deep;
Make mountain oaks to bend and weep;
Thrill every heart with horrors dire,

And shape the breeze to forms of fire.

When poured from greenwood-bowerateven, "Twill draw the spirits down from heaven; And all the fays that haunt the wood, To dance around in frantic mood, And tune their mimic harps so boon Beneath the cliff and midnight moon. Ah! yes, my Queen! if once you heard The Scottish lay from Highland bard,

Then might you say in raptures meet,

No song was ever half so sweet.

Queen Mary lighted in the court; Queen Mary joined the evening's sport; Yet though at table all were seen,

To wonder at her air and mien ;

Though courtiers fawned and ladies sung,

Still in her ear the accents rung,—

"Watch thy young bosom, and maiden eye,
"For the shower must fall, and the flowret die."

These words prophetic seemed to be,
Foreboding wo and misery;

And much she wished to prove ere long,

The wonderous powers of Scottish song.

When next to ride the Queen was bound,

To view the city's ample round,
On high amid the gathered crowd,
A herald thus proclaim'd aloud:-

C

"Peace, peace to Scotland's wasted vales, To her dark heaths and Highland dales;

To her brave sons of warlike mood,

To all her daughters fair and good;

Peace o'er her ruined vales shall pour,

Like beam of heaven behind the shower.

Let every harp and echo ring;

Let maidens smile and poets sing;

For love and peace entwined shall sleep,

Calm as the moon-beam on the deep;
By waving wood and wandering rill,

On purple heath and Highland hill.

"The soul of warrior stern to charm, And bigotry and rage disarm,

Our Queen commands, that every bard
Due honours have, and high regard.

If, to his song of rolling fire,

He join the Caledonian lyre,

And skill in legendary lore,

Still higher shall his honours soar.

For all the arts beneath the heaven,

That man has found, or God has given,

None draws the soul so sweet away,

As music's melting mystic lay;

Slight emblem of the bliss above,

It sooths the spirit all to love.

"To cherish this attractive art, To lull the passions, mend the heart, And break the moping zealot's chains, Hear what our lovely Queen ordains.

"Each Caledonian bard must seek Her courtly halls on Christmas week, That then the Royal Wake may be Cheered by their thrilling minstrelsy. No ribaldry the Queen must hear, No song unmeet for maiden's ear,

No jest, nor adulation bland,

But legends of our native land;

And he whom most the court regards,

High be his honours and rewards.

Let every

Scottish bard give ear,

Let every Scottish bard appear;

He then before the court must stand,

In native garb, with harp in hand.

At home no minstrel dare to tarry :

High the behest.-God save Queen Mary!"

Little recked they, that idle throng,

Of music's power or minstrel's song;
But crowding their young Queen around,
Whose stately courser pawed the ground,
Her beauty more their wonder swayed,
Than all the noisy herald said;
Judging the proffer all in sport,

An idle whim of idle court.

But many a bard preferred his

prayer;

For many a Scottish bard was there.

Quaked each fond heart with raptures strong,

Each thought upon his harp and song;