illustrate, though they may not be found in any glossary of that language. These are, indeed, generally so notoriously deficient and absurd, that it is painful for any one conversant in the genuine old provincial dialect to look into them.

Ignorant, however, as I am of every dialect save my mother tongue, I imagine that I understand so much of the English language as to perceive that its muscular strength consists in the energy of its primitive stem-in the trunk from which all its foliage hath sprung, and around which its exuberant tendrils are all entwined and interwoven-I mean the remains of the ancient Teutonic. On the strength of this conceived principle, which may haply be erroneous, I have laid it down as a maxim, that the greater number of these old words and terms that can be introduced with propriety into our language, the better. To this my casual innovations must be attributed. The authority of Grahame and Scott has of late rendered a few of these old terms legitimate. If I had been as much master of the standard language as they, I would have introduced ten times more.

NOTE XXXIV.

THE following Poem was inserted by the Publisher of the Second Edition, as illustrative of some of the Songs in the Work. It was written and sent to him by B. BARTON, Esq. Woodbridge, Suffolk.

SHEPHERD of Ettrick! as of yore

To humble swains the Seraphs sung,
Again, though now unseen, they pour
Their hallow'd strains from mortal tongue.

For O! celestial are the tones

The minstrel strikes to Malcolm's sorrow;

When Jura, echoing back his moans,

Claims the lost maiden of Glen-ora.

Soft dies the strain; the cords now ring,
Swept by a more impetuous hand;
Indignant Gardyn strikes the string,

And terror chills the listening band.

Now from the cliffs of old Cairn-gorm,

Dark gathering clouds the tempest bring;

He comes, the Spirit of the Storm!

And at the rustling of his wing,

The harp's wild notes, now high, now low,
In varying cadence swell or fall,
Like wintry winds in wild Glencoe,
Or ruined Bothwell's roofless hall.

A wilder strain is wafted near

As from the regions of the sky; And where's the mortal that can hear Unmoved the Spectre's lullaby?

To weave the due reward of praise

For

every rival bard were vain;

Nor suits an humble poet's lays,

Who loves, yet fears a loftier strain.

Yet must I pause upon the tale

Of that strange bark for Staffa bound; Proudly she greets the morning gale, Proudly she sails from holy ground.

O, never yet has ship that traced
The pathless bosom of the main,
Been with such magic numbers graced,
Or honoured with so sweet a strain.

But who, that sees the morning rise
Serenely bright, can tell the hour
When the rough tempest of the skies

Shall next display its awful power?

And who, that sees the floating bark
Sail forth obedient to the gale,
Foresees the impending horrors dark,

That swell the terror of the tale?

That favoured maiden's wondrous doom,

Who, 'neath a self-illumined sky,

Saw fields and flowers in endless bloom.

O Heaven-taught Shepherd! when or where Was that ethereal legend wrought?

What urged thee thus a flight to dare

Through realms by former bards unsought?

Say, hast thou, like Kilmeny, been

Transported to the land of thought;

And thence, by minstrel vision keen,
The fire of inspiration caught?

It must be so in cottage lone,

To dreams of poesy resigned, From Ettrick's banks thy soul has flown, And earth-born follies left behind.

Then through those scenes Kilmeny saw,
In trance ecstatic hast thou roved,
And witnessed, but with holy awe,
What mortal fancy never proved.

O Shepherd! since 'tis thine to boast
The fascinating powers of song,

Far, far above the countless host,

Who swell the Muses' suppliant throng,

The GIFT OF GOD distrust no more,

His inspiration be thy guide;

Be heard thy harp from shore to shore,

Thy song's reward thy country's pride.

WOODBRIDGE, April 21, 1813.

THE END.

Edinburgh:

OLIVER & BOYD, PRINTERS.