"While these the priest and those, the noble fleeces, Our poor old boot," they said, "is torn to pieces. Its tops the vengeful claws of Austria feel, And the Great Devil is rending toe and heel. If happiness you seek, to tell you truly, We think she dwells with one Giovanni Bulli; A tramontane, a heretic,-the buck, And then-a perfect walking moneybag." Off set our Prince to seek John Bull's abode, But first took France-it lay upon the road. XIIL Monsieur Baboon, after much late commotion, Was agitated like a settling ocean, Quite out of sorts, and could not tell what ail'd him, Only the glory of his house had fail'd him; Besides, some tumours on his noddle biding, Gave indication of a recent hiding. Our Prince, though Sultauns of such things are heedless, Thought it a thing indelicate and needless To ask, if at that moment he was happy. And Monsieur, seeing that he was comme il faut, a Loud voice muster'd up, for "Vive "Ave you any le Roi!" Then whisper'd, news of Nappy?" The Sultaun answer'd him with a cross-question,— "Pray, can you tell me aught of one John Bull, That dwells somewhere beyond your herring-pool?" The query seem'd of difficult digestion, The party shrugg'd, and grinn'd, and took his snuff, And found his whole good-breeding scarce enough. XIV. Twitching his visage into as many puckers As damsels wont to put into their tuckers, She doucely span her flax and milk'd her cow. And whereas erst she was a needy slattern, Nor now of wealth or cleanliness a pattern, Yet once a-month her house was partly swept, And once a-week a plenteous board she kept. And whereas, eke, the vixen used her claws And teeth, of yore, on slender provocation, She now was grown amenable to laws, A quiet soul as any in the nation; The sole remembrance of her warlike joys Was in old songs she sang to please her boys. John Bull, whom, in their years of early strife, She wont to lead a cat-and-doggish life, Now found the woman, as he said, a neighbour, Who look'd to the main chance, declined no labour, Loved a long grace, and spoke a northern jargon, And was d-d close in making of a bargain. They seized, and they floor'd, and they stripp'd him-Alack Up-bubboo! Paddy had not- -a shirt to his back!!! And the King, disappointed, with sorrow and shame, Went back to Serendib as sad as he came. THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill, Bears those bright hues that once it bore Though evening, with her richest dye, Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain, I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruin'd pride. The quiet lake, the balmy air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree, Are they still such as once they were? Or is the dreary change in me? Alas, the warp'd and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye! The harp of strain'd and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply! To aching eyes each landscape low ers, To feverish pulse each gale blows chill: And Araby's or Eden's bowers Were barren as this moorland hill. THE MONKS OF BANGOR'S MARCH. AIR-" Ymdaith Mionge." WRITTEN FOR MR. GEORGE THOMSON'S WELSH MELODIES, berland, having besieged Chester in 613, and ETHELFRID or OLFRID, King of Northum BROCKMAEL, a British Prince, advancing t relieve it, the religious of the neighbouring O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, O miserere, Domine ! Sing, Omiserere, Domine! Bangor! o'er the murder wail! * In William of Malmsbury's time the ruins of Bangor still attested the cruelty of the Northumbrians. MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. AIR-"Cha till mi tuille." Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lment when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching fend; and hence the Gaelic words, Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon,' "I shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore. MACLEOD'S wizard flag from the grey castle sallies, The rowers are seated, unmoor'd are the galleys; Gleam war-axe and broadsword, clang target and quiver, As Mackrimmon sings, "Farewell to Farewell to each cliff, on which Dunvegan for ever! breakers are foaming; Farewell each dark glen, in which red-deer are roaming; Farewell, lonely Skye, to lake, mountain, and river; Macleod may return, but Mackrimmon shall never! "Farewell the bright clouds that on Quillan are sleeping; Farewell the bright eyes in the Dun that are weeping; To each minstrel delusion, farewell! -and for ever Mackrimmon departs, to return to you never! The Banshee's wild voice sings the death-dirge before me, The pall of the dead for a mantle But my heart shall not flag, and my "Too oft shall the notes of Mackrim- |