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There learning shall flourish, and liberty smile,
The awe of the world, and the pride of the isle.

"But thy lonely spirit shall roam in dismay;
And weep o'er thy labours so soon to decay.
In yon western plain, where thy power overthrew
The bulwarks of Caledon, valiant and few;

Where beamed the red faulchion of ravage and wrath;
Where tyranny, horsed on the dragons of death,

Rode ruthless through blood of the honoured and just. When Græme and brave Stuart lay bleeding in dust,

The wailings of liberty pierced the sky;

Th' Eternal, in pity, averted his eye!

"Even there shall the power of thy nations combined, Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy joined, Exulting in numbers, and dreadful array,

Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away,

As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole,

Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll.

A handful of heroes, all desperate driven,

Impelled by the might and the vengeance of Heaven;

By them shall his legions be all overborne,

And melt from the field like the mist of the morn.
The Thistle shall rear her rough front to the sky,
And the Rose and the Shamrock at Carron shall die.

"How couldst thou imagine those spirits of flame
Would stoop to oppression, to slavery, and shame!
Ah! never; the lion may couch to thy sway,
The mighty leviathan bend and obey;

But the Scots, round their king and broad banner unfurled,
Their mountains will keep against thee and the world.”

King Edward awoke with a groan and a start,
The vision was vanished, but not from his heart!
His courage was high, but his vigour was gone;
He cursed the Scotch nation, and bade them lead on.

His legions moved on like a cloud of the west;
But fierce was the fever that boiled in his breast.

On sand of the Solway they rested his bed,
Where the soul of the king and the warrior fled;
He heard not the sound of the evening curfew;

But the whisper that died on his tongue was" Subdue!"

The bard had sung so bold and high, While patriot fire flashed from his eye, That ere King Edward won to rest,

Or sheet was spread above his breast, The harp-strings jarred in wild mistone; - The minstrel throbbed, his voice was gone. Upon his harp he leaned his head, And softly from the ring was led.

The next was from a western vale, Where Nith winds slowly down the dale; Where play the waves o'er golden grain,

Like mimic billows of the main.

Of the old elm his harp was made,

That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade: No gilded sculpture round her flamed, For his own hand that harp had framed,

In stolen hours, when, labour done,

He strayed to view the parting sun.
O when the toy to him so fair,
Began to form beneath his care,

How danced his youthful heart with joy!

How constant grew the dear employ !

The sun would chamber in the Ken;

The red star rise o'er Locherben;
The solemn moon, in sickly hue,
Waked from her eastern couch of dew,
Would half way gain the vault on high,
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by,
And still the bard his task would ply.

When his first notes, from covert gray, Arrested maiden on her way;

When ceased the reaper's evening tale,
And paused the shepherd of the dale,-
Bootless all higher worldly bliss,
To crown our minstrel's happiness!
What all the joys by fortune given,
To cloyless song, the gift of Heaven?

That harp could make the matron stare,

Bristle the peasant's hoary hair,

Make patriot-breasts with ardour glow,

And warrior pant to meet the foe;

And long by Nith the maidens young
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung;

At ewe-bught, or at evening fold,
When resting on the daisied wold,
Combing their locks of waving gold,
Oft the fair group enrapt, shall name
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame;
His was a song beloved in youth,—
A tale of weir-a tale of truth.

Dumlanrig.

THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG.

Who's he that at Dumlanrig's gate

Hollas so loud, and raps so late?
Nor warder's threat, nor porter's growl,
Question, nor watch-dog's angry howl,
He once regards, but rap and call,

Thundering alternate shake the wall.

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