friends are no more, and their dwell-ing is not; Still

greater's the change up - on me.

I was young, and my hopes and my courage were high.
For freedom I freely drew glaive;

But ruin soon came, and the spoiler was nigh;
No home there remained for the brave.

I have roamed on the world's wide wilderness cast,
Unfriended, exposed to the bitterest blast

Of misfortune, and now I have sought thee at last,
To sleep in my forefathers' grave.

As clear as before runs thy burn o'er its bed,
As sweet thy wild heath-flowerets grow;
But thy glory is past, and thy honours are fled,
Since freedom no more thou canst know:

Thy sons were disloyal, unmanly, unjust ;

The heroes were few that stood firm to their trust;
Thy thistle's dishonoured and trampled in dust,
By the friends of thy deadliest foe.

The smoke of the cottage arose to the sky,
The babe dipt its finger in gore,

And smiled, for it knew not the bright crimson dye,
Was the life's blood of her that it bore.

Thy foes they were many, and ruthless their wrath,
Thy glens they defaced with ravage and death;
Thy children were hunted and slain on the heath,
And the best of thy sons are no more.

Thy hills are majestic, thy vallies are fair,
But ah, they're possessed by a foe;

Thy glens are the same, but a stranger is there;
There is none that will weep for thy woe.

On my thoughts hangs a heavy, a dark cheerless gloom,
And far from thee long have I mourned o'er thy doom;
And again I have sought thee to find me a tomb;
'Tis all thou hast now to bestow.

I'll wander away to that ill-fated heath,

Where Scotland for freedom last stood;
Where fought the last remnant for glory or death,
And sealed the true cause with their blood.

And there will I mourn for the honour that's fled,
And dig a new grave 'mong the bones of the dead;
Then proudly lay down my gray weary head,
With the last of the loyal and good.

T. G.

SONG XXV.

Though rugged and rough be the Land of my Birth.

MODERN.

THO' rug-ged and rough be the land of my birth, To the

eye of my heart 'tis the E--den of earth.

Far, far have I sought, but no land could I see, Half so

fair as the land of my fathers to me.

And what though the days of her greatness be o'er,
Though her nobles be few, though her kings are no more,
Not a hope from her thraldom that time may deliver-
Though the sun of her glory hath left her for ever!

Dark, dark are the shades that encompass her round,
But still 'mid those glooms may a radiance be found,
As the flush through the clouds of the evening is seen,
To tell what the blaze of the noontide had been.

With a proud swelling heart I will dwell on her story,
I will tell to my children the tale of her glory;
When nations contended her friendship to know,
When tyrants were trembling to find her their foe.

Let him hear of that story, and where is the Scot,
Whose heart will not swell when he thinks of her lot;
Swell with pride for her power, in the times that are o'er,
And with grief that the days of her might are no more?

Unmanned be his heart, and be speechless his tongue,
Who forgets how she fought, who forgets how she sung;
Ere her blood through black treason was swelling her rills,
Ere the voice of the stranger was heard on her hills!

How base his ambition, how poor is his pride,
Who would lay the high name of a SCOTSMAN aside;
Would whisper his country with shame and with fear,
Lest the Southrons should hear it, and taunt as they hear.

Go tell them, thou fool! that the time erst hath been,
When the Southrons would blench if a Scot were but seen;
When to keep and to castle in terror they fled,
As the loud border echoes resounded his tread.

Shall thy name, O my country! no longer be heard,
Once the boast of the hero, the theme of the bard;
Alas! how the days of thy greatness are gone,
For the name of proud England is echoed alone!

What a pang to my heart, how my soul is on flame,
To hear that vain rival in arrogance claim;

As the meed of their own, what thy children had won,
And their deeds pass for deeds which the English have done.

Accursed be the lips that would sweep from the earth,

The land of my fathers, the land of my birth;"

No more 'mid the nations her place to be seen,

Nor her name left to tell where her glory had been!

I sooner would see thee, my dear native land,

As barren, as bare as the rocks on thy strand,

Than the wealth of the world that thy children should boast, And the heart-thrilling name of old Scotia be lost.

O Scotia, my country, dear land of my birth,
Thou home of my fathers, thou Eden of earth;

Through the world have I sought, but no land could I see
Half so fair as thy heaths and thy mountains to me!

M. L.

NOTICES.

ALL the songs in this Appendix that are marked with an asterisk are old songs, picked out of the various collections furnished me by my friends, merely to exhaust the subject that I had taken in hand. The airs to which they are sung are marked, and generally to be found in the course of the work.

Both the translations and the songs, having the signature T. G. at them, are anonymous; and I can only express my thanks to my ingenious correspondent, until such time as he chooses to make himself known to me. Whoever he may be, whether Highlander or Lowlander, his songs have no ordinary degree of merit.

Song 6th is by the author of Waverley.

Song 9th is by R. Jamieson, Esq. the first verse and burden only being old. It alludes to the landing of the Prince in Moidart, as thus hailed in the burden of a Gaelic song :—

Gu'n d'thanig an Righ air tir i Mhuideart,
Tha d'ait ag cradhin, tha d'ait ag cradhin,
Gu'n d'thanig an Righ air tir i Mhuideart,
Righ nan Gaidheal, Righ nan Gaidheal.

Song 11th is modern, and has been published; but I do not know the author.

Song 13th is by the redoubted Willison Glass.

Song 14th is my own, and a little altered from the copy in "The Forest Minstrel."

Song 15th is by John Grieve, Esq. It is set to a beautiful Gaelic air. Lochiel got safe to France, and was there made a colonel of 1000 men, which he enjoyed till his death in 1748. Dr Cameron, his brother, was wounded at Culloden by a musket bullet, which entered near the elbow, and went along the arm, and then out at the opposite shoulder. I am obliged, for the following anecdote of this latter gentleman, to my friend, the celebrated David Wilkie, Esq. who says, "Dr Spence, an esteemed friend of mine, whose memory carries him as far back as the VOL. II.

3 K

Forty-five, has frequently related to me, and nearly in the following words, an occurrence he witnessed in his early youth, strongly illustrative of the character of a distinguished sufferer in the cause of the house of Stuart :

"When a boy at Linlithgow school, some years after the rebellion, I remember Dr Cameron, brother to the celebrated Lochiel, being brought into the town under an escort of dragoons. He wore a French light-coloured great-coat, and rode a grey pony, with his feet lashed to its sides; but, considering his situation and prospects, looked remarkably cheerful. As the party were to rest for the night, the prisoner was placed for security in the common jail; and well do I remember, as I remained with the crowd at the prison-door, overhearing the Doctor within singing to himself his native song of "Farewell to Lochaber,"

"We'll may be return to Lochaber no more."

"Knowing he had just been apprehended in the Highlands, whither he had returned from France, in the vain hope that his defection might be pardoned or forgotten, and that, when I saw him, he was on his way to London, where he suffered upon Tower-Hill; the remembrance has made a strong impression upon my mind, and I never since have heard the air of " Lochaber,” without recalling the tone of voice, with all the circumstances of the unhappy situation and fate of Dr Cameron.

"The above, which has often been related to me with an impressive feeling by my respected friend, you will excuse me for thinking worthy of your attention. I value it as a strongly national trait, exhibiting that disinterested longing after home, that, in whatever place or situation, never seems to forsake the kindly Scot."

Songs 16th and 17th are both by Burns.

Song 19th, as well as the last song in this appendix, was sent me anonymously, with the signature here given; and the answer directed to be left at the post-office. They are two beautiful songs, and the author ought not to be ashamed of owning them.

Song 20th is also by no less a man than Willison Glass, and is well entitled to a place here.

Song 22d was written by me many years ago, and published in "The Forest Minstrel."

Song 23d was written by the late ingenious Miss Blamire of Carlisle.

Those correspondents whom I have neglected in my confusion of Jacobite matter must excuse me. One peep into my repository would be worth a thousand apologies.