so lovely, that I wept when she left me.' Poor fellow! I can never, never forget the expression that lighted up his pale features, and the vacant brilliancy of his large dark eyes, as he gazed at me while he spoke, and with a cold smile upon his wan lips repeated Yes-she will come again at night-so beautiful, and so happy! I thought my heart would break!-and yet, what consolation there was to hear him speak at all; and to know that he was emerging

from that state of stupor, of benumbed and voiceless sorrow, which had something in it more awful and afflicting than even the delirious ramblings of confirmed insanity."

Here the general ceased; and in the mute attention of his auditors, no less than in the various emotions which betrayed themselves, he might have gathered the thrilling interest that had been excited by his recital.

SONGS OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.*

This volume is the production of an author of acknowledged, but unequal talent; of a man who can sometimes write admirably, but at others, infinitely below mediocrity. The fact is, our Ettrick Shepherd has been taught to believe he has only to put pen to paper, and behold-a miracle! Now this is not exactly the case; and were there no other evidence that it is not, than the volume before us, we should there find enough to vindicate what we have asserted. But our present business is, not to show wherein he has failed, but to gratify our readers with specimens which may show wherein he has succeeded. The following extracts are among the best which the volume affords.

DONALD MACDONALD.

I place this song the first, not on account of any intrinsic merit that it possesses-for there it ranks rather low-but merely because it was my first song, and exceedingly popular when it first appeared. I wrote it when a barefooted lad herding lambs on the Blackhouse Heights, in utter indignation at the threatened invasion from France. But after it had run through the Three Kingdoms, like fire set to heather, for ten or twelve years, no one ever knew or inquired who was the author.-It is set to the old air, "Woo'd an' married an' a'."

My name it is Donald M'Donald,

I leeve in the Heelands sae grand;

I hae follow'd our banner, and will do,
Wherever my Maker has land.
When rankit amang the blue bonnets,
Nae danger can fear me ava;

I ken that my brethren around me
Are either to conquer or fa'.
Brogues an' brochin an' a',
Brochin an' brogues an' a';
An' is nae her very weel aff
Wi' her brogues an' brochin an' a'?

What though we befriendit young Charlie?-
To tell it I dinna think shame ;

Poor lad, he cam to us but barely,

An' reckon'd our mountains his hame. 'Twas true that our reason forbade us;

But tenderness carried the day ;

Had Geordie come friendless amang us,
Wi' him we had a' gane away.
Sword an' buckler an' a',
Buckler an' sword an' a';

Now for George we'll encounter the devil,
Wi' sword an' buckler an' a'.

Blackwood, Edinburgh. Cadell, London.i

An' O, I wad eagerly press him

The keys o' the East to retain;
For should he gie up the possession,
We'll soon hae to force them again.
Than yield up an inch wi' dishonour,
Though it were my finishing blow,
He aye may depend on M'Donald,
Wi' his Heelanders a' in a row:
Knees an' elbows an' a',
Elbows an' knees an' a';
Depend upon Donald M'Donald,
His knees an' elbows an' a'!

Wad Bonaparte land at Fort-William,

Auld Europe nae langer should grane;
I laugh when I think how we'd gall him,
Wi' bullet, wi' steel, an' wi' stane;
Wi' rocks o' the Nevis and Garny

We'd rattle him off frae our shore,
Or lull him asleep in a cairny,

An' sing him-Lochaber no more!
Stanes an' bullets an' a',
Bullets an' stanes an' a';
We'll finish the Corsican callan
Wi' stanes an' bullets an' a'!

For the Gordon is good in a hurry,

An' Campbell is steel to the bane,
An' Grant, an' M'Kenzie, an' Murray,
An' Cameron will hurkle to nane;
The Stuart is sturdy an' loyal,

An' sae is M'Leod an' M'Kay;
An' I, their gudebrither, M'Donald,
Shall ne'er be the last in the fray!
Brogues an' brochin an' a',
Brochin an' brogues an' a';
An' up wi' the bonny blue bonnet,
The kilt an' the feather an' a'!

I once heard the above song sung in the theatre at Lancaster, when the singer substituted the following lines of his own for the last verse:

For Jock Bull he is good in a hurry,

An' Sawney is steel to the bane,
An' wee Davie Welsh is a widdy,
An' Paddy will burkle to nane;

They'll a' prove baith sturdy and loyal,
Come dangers around them what may,
An' I, their gudebrither, M'Donald,

Shall ne'er be the last in the fray, &c.

It took exceedingly well, and was three times encored, and there was I sitting in the gallery, applauding as much as any body. My vanity prompted me to tell a jolly Yorkshire manufacturer that night, that I was the author of the song. He laughed excessively at my assumption, and told the landlady that he took me for a half-crazed Scots pedler.

THE WOMEN FO'K.

The air of this song is my own. It was first set to music by Heather, and most beautifully set too. It was afterwards set by Dewar, whether with the same accompaniments or not, I have forgot. It is my own favourite humorous song, when forced to sing by ladies against my will, which too frequently happens; and, notwithstanding my wood-notes wild, it will never be sung by any so well again. For the air, see the Border Garland.

VOL. I.

O sairly may I rue the day

I fancied first the womenkind;
For aye sinsyne I ne'er can hae

Ae quiet thought or peace o' mind!

H

They hae plagued my heart an' pleased my ee,
An' teased an' flatter'd me at will,
But aye, for a' their witcherye,

The pawky things I lo'e them still.

O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O weary fa' the women fo'k,

For they winna let a body be!

I hae thought an' thought, but darena tell,
I've studied them with a' my skill,
I've lo'ed them better than mysell,

I've tried again to like them ill.
Wha sairest strives, will sairest rue,
To comprehend what nae man can;
When he has done what man can do,
He'll end at last where he began.
O the women fo'k, &c.

That they hae gentle forms an' meet,
A man wi' half a look may see;
An' gracefu' airs, an' faces sweet,

An' waving curls aboon the bree;
An' smiles as soft as the young rose-bud,
An' een sae pawky, bright, an' rare,
Wad lure the laverock frae the cludd-
But, laddie, seek to ken nae mair!
O the women fo'k, &c.

Even but this night nae farther gane, ]
The date is neither lost nor lang,
I tak ye witness ilka ane,

How fell they fought, and fairly dang.
Their point they've carried right or wrang,
Without a reason, rhyme, or law,,

An' forced a man to sing a sang,
That ne'er could sing a verse ava.

O the women fo'k! O the women fo'k!
But they hae been the wreck o' me;
O weary fa' the women fo'k,
For they winna let a body be!

A WITCH'S CHANT.

This is a most unearthly song, copied from a most unearthly tragedy of my own, published anonymously with others, in two volumes, in 1817, by Messrs. Longman and Co., and John Ballantyne. The title of the play is All-Hallow Eve. It was suggested to me by old Henry Mackenzie. After a short but intimate acquaintance, I threw it aside, and my eyes never fell upon it till this night, the last of November, 1830. The poetry of the play has astounded me. The following is but a flea-bite to some of it.

Thou art weary, weary, weary,

Thou art weary and far away,
Hear me, gentle spirit, hear me,
Come before the dawn of day.

I hear a small voice from the hill,
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still-
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the witching star is red as blood.

And in the cleft of heaven I scan
The giant form of a naked man,
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.

All is not well. By dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heaven and hell
There is this night a wild deray,

The spirits have wander'd from their way.
The purple drops shall tinge the moon
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With blood by guilty angels shed.

Be as it will, I have the skill

To work by good or work by ill;

Then here's for pain, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, worst of all.

Another chant, and then, and then,
Spirits shall come or Christian men-
Come from the earth, the air, or the sea,
Great Gil-Moules, I cry to thee!

Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind,
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind;
And the long-tailed fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky.

Over the dog-star, over the wain,

Over the cloud, and the rainbow's mane,
Over the mountain, and over the sea,

Haste-haste-haste to me!

Then here's for trouble, and here's for smart,
And here's for the pang that seeks the heart;
Here's for madness, and here's for thrall,
And here's for conscience, the worst of all!

THE BROKEN HEART.

The Broken Heart was written in detestation of the behaviour of a gentleman (can I call him so?) to a dearly beloved young relative of my own, and whom, at the time I wrote this, I never expected to recover from the shock her kind and affectionate heart had received. It has, however, turned out a lucky disappointment for her.

Now lock my chamber door, father,

And say you left me sleeping;
But never tell my step-mother
Of all this bitter weeping.

No earthly sleep can ease my smart,
Or even awhile reprieve it;

For there's a pang at my young heart
That never more can leave it!

O, let me lie, and weep my fill

O'er wounds that heal can never;

And O, kind Heaven! were it thy will,
To close these eyes for ever;

For how can maid's affections dear
Recall her love mistaken?

Or how can heart of maiden bear

To know that heart forsaken ?

O, why should vows so fondly made,
Be broken ere the morrow,
To one who loved as never maid

Loved in this world of sorrow?
The look of scorn I cannot brave,
Nor pity's eye more dreary;
A quiet sleep within the grave
Is all for which I weary!

Farewell, dear Yarrow's mountains green,
And banks of broom so yellow!
Too happy has this bosom been
Within your arbours mellow.
That happiness is fled for aye,
And all is dark desponding,
Save in the opening gates of day,

And the dear home beyond them!

LETTERS AND JOURNALS OF LORD BYRON, WITH SOME
ACCOUNT OF HIS LIFE. BY THOMAS MOORE.

It would be unfair to approach this work without a full consideration of the difficulties which must have embarrassed the author in the task of selection, and of what was, perhaps, a still more arduous portion of the labour, that of suppression. We are not disposed to criticise the writings of Lord Byron, nor to trumpet forth, for the thousandth time, the characteristics of his mind; but no one will now deny, that there was something fiend-like in his nature-and we have indication enough of this, even in the letters and journals before us, which Mr. Moore has taken infinite pains to adapt for the press. With all the biographer's care, however, there are many of the noble bard's effusions in print, instead of where they ought to be in the fire; and the volumes present ample evidence-notwithstanding the avowed object of the work is to screen the meaning of the deceased-that, whether considered in his public or private relations, the laws of society were respected but little, and the laws of morality defied altogether. The work is one of extreme interest; it presents a kind of living portrait, sketched by the noble lord himself; and all the palliations offered by his friend and biographer, all the touches which, under some circumstances, might have put a more amiable face upon the picture, the hard outline remains, as it were, obstinately contesting for supremacy, and defying the hand of art to soften it. They who contemplate the genius of Byron, may fall down at its shrine, but they cannot lose sight of its occasional degradation; and, if we speak our honest opinion, the noble bard rarely stands in a worse light, than when his biographer endeavours to extenuate the vices, and patch the moral reputation of his deceased friend. The weekly and diurnal press have ransacked the volumes for interesting scraps, but we must select, nevertheless, specimens from each department of the work.

TO LADY BYRON.

Extracts from the Letters.

(To the care of the Hon. Mrs. Leigh, London.) Pisa, Nov. 17, 1821.

I have to acknowledge the receipt of "Ada's hair," which is very soft and pretty, and nearly as dark already as mine was at twelve years old, if I may judge from what I recollect of some in Augusta's possession, taken at that age. But it don't curl, perhaps from its being let grow.

I also thank you for the inscription of the date and name, and I will tell you why; -I believe that they are the only two or three words of your handwriting in my possession. For your letters I returned, and except the two words, or rather the one word, "Household," written twice in an old account-book, I have no other. I burnt your last note, for two reasons:-1stly, it was written in a style not very agreeable;

and, 2dly, I wished to take your word without documents, which are the worldly resources of suspicious people.

I suppose that this note will reach you somewhere about Ada's birthday the 10th of December, I believe. She will then be six, so that in about twelve more I shall have some chance of meeting her! perhaps sooner, if I am obliged to go to England by business or otherwise. Recollect, however, one thing, either in distance or nearness;-every day which keeps us asunder should, after so long a period, rather soften our mutual feelings, which must always have one rallying-point as long as our child exists, which 1 presume we both hope will be long after either of her parents.

The time which has elapsed since the separation has been considerably more than the whole brief period of our union, and the