LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

Seer. Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day
When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array !
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,

And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight;
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Wo, wo to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far?
'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love lighted watchfire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning; no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albyn, to death and captivity led!

O weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead;
For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,

Culloden that reeks with the blood of the brave.

Lochiel. Go preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer!

Or if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,

Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight

This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

Seer. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn!

Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth,

From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north?
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad;

But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah! home let him speed, for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast?

'Tis the fire shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn:
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return!

For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
Lochiel. False wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock !
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But wo to his kindred, and wo to his cause,
When Albyn her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonnetted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array -
Seer.
Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day!
For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal.
"Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.
I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring,
With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king.
Lo! annointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath,
Behold, where he flies on his desolate path!

Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my sight;
Rise! rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight!-
"Tis finished. Their thunders are hushed on the moors;
Culloden is lost, and my country deplores.

But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?
For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Say, mounts he the ocean wave, banished, forlorn,
Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn?

Ah no! for a darker departure is near,—

The war drum is muffled, and black is the bier;
His death bell is tolling! Oh, mercy! dispel
Yon sight that it freezes my spirit to tell!
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs,
And his blood streaming nostril in agony swims;
Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale

Lochiel. Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale :
For never shall Albyn a destiny meet,

So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat.

Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gore,
Like ocean weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,

Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,

Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!

And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

Look proudly to heaven from the death-bed of fame.

CAMPBELL.

INDIGESTION.

[Scene, Dr. Gregory's Study. Enter a plump Glasgow merchant.]

Patient. Good morning, Dr. Gregory; I'm just come into Edinburgh about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel tak your advice, sir, about my trouble. Doctor. And pray what may your trouble be, my good sir?

Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pinkling about my stomach - I'm just na right.

Dr. You are from the west country, I should suppose, sir.
Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow.

Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton?

Pa. God forbid, sir, I'm one of the plainest men living in all the west country.

Dr. Then perhaps you're a drunkard ?

Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of that; I'm of the dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an elder, so ye may suppose I'm na drunkard.

Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I should wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it?

Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock, tak a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea; a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kippered salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter.

Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast?

Pa. Oh yes, sir; but I don't count that as anything.

Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make?

Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed. Some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite.

Dr. You take a little pudding then, and afterwards some cheese.
Pa. Oh yes! though I don't care much about them.

Dr. You take a glass of ale or porter to your cheese?
Pa. Yes, one or the other, but seldom both.

Dr. You west country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner.

Pa. Yes, we do: it's good for digestion.

Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner?

Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry, but I'm indifferent as to wine

during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer.

Dr. What quantity of port do you drink?

Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses, or so.

Dr. In the west country, it is impossible, I hear, to dine without punch?

Pa. Yes, sir; indeed 'tis punch we drink chiefly; but for myself, unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers, or so, and that's moderate.

You then, after this

Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter?

Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting house to read the evening letters.

Dr. And on your return you take supper, I

suppose?

Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to tak supper; just something before going to bed; a rizzered haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or half a hundred of oysters, or the like o' that, and may be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I tak no regular supper.

Dr. But you take a little more punch after that?

Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bed time. I tak a tumbler of warm whiskey toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on. Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every day life; but upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little?

Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr. Not above twice a week?

Pa. No: not oftener.

Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite?

Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill health that I have is about meal time.

Dr. (Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering his eye brows.) Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed; you come here and tell me you are a moderate man; and I might have believed you, did I not know the nature of the people in your part of the country; but upon examination, I find by your own showing, that you are a most voracious glutton; you breakfast in the morning in a style that would serve a moderate man for dinner; and from five o'clock in the afternoon, you undergo ne almost uninterrupted loading of your stomach, till you go to bed. This is your moderation! You told me too another falsehood-you said you were a sober man, yet by your own showing, you are a beer swiller, a dram drinker, a wine bibber, and a guzzler of punch; a liquor, the name