Lady R. My heart forebodes some evil!
Doug. "Tis not good.-

At eve, unseen by Randolph and Glenalvon,
The good old Norval, in the grove, o'erheard
Their conversation: oft they mention'd me
With dreadful threat'nings; you they sometimes
nam'd.

'Twas strange, they said, a wonderful discov'ry; And ever and anon they vow'd revenge.

The love of thee, before thou saw'st the light,
Sustain'd my life when thy brave father fell.
If thou shalt fall, I have nor love nor hope
In this waste world! My son, remember me!
Doug. What shall I say? how can I give you

comfort?

tray'd:

They have found out the secret of thy birth:
It must be so. That is the great discovery.
Sir Malcolm's heir is come to claim his own;
And they will be reveng'd. Perhaps, e'en now,
Arm'd and prepar'd for murder, they but wait
A darker and more silent hour, to break
Into the chamber where they think thou sleep'st,
This moment; this, Heav'n hath ordain'd to save
thee!

Fly to the camp, my son!

Doug. And leave you here?

No; to the castle let us go together,

Call up the ancient servants of your house,
Who in their youth did eat your father's bread:
Then tell them loudly, that I am your son.
If in the breasts of men one spark remains
Of sacred love, fidelity, or pity,
Some in your cause will arm. I ask but few
To drive those spoilers from my father's house.
Lady R. Oh! nature, nature! what can check
thy force?

Thou genuine offspring of the daring Douglas!
But rush not on destruction: save thyself,
And I am safe. To me they mean no harm.
Thy stay but risks thy precious life in vain.
That winding path conducts thee to the river.
Cross where thou seest a broad and beaten way;
Which, running eastward, leads thee to the camp.
Instant demand admittance to Lord Douglas;
Show him these jewels, which his brother wore.
Thy look, thy voice, will make him feel the truth;
Which I, by certain proofs, will soon confirm.

Doug. I yield me and obey; but yet, my heart
Bleeds at this parting. Something bids me stay,
And guard a mother's life. Oft have I read
Of wondrous deeds by one bold arm achiev'd.
Our foes are two; no more: let me go forth,
And see if any shield can guard Glenalvon.

Lady R. If thou regard'st thy mother, or rever'st

Thy father's memory, think of this no more.
One thing I have to say before we part;
Long wert thou lost; and thou art found, my
child,

In a most fearful season. War and battle
I have great cause to dread. Too well I see
Which way the current of thy temper sets;
To-day I've found thee. Oh, my long lost hope!
If thou to giddy valour giv'st the rein,
To-morrow I may lose my son for ever.

That which I boast sounds amongst martial men
How will inglorious caution suit my claim?
The post of fate, unshrinking, I maintain.
My country's foes must witness who I am.
On the invaders' heads I'll prove my birth,
Till friends and foes confess the genuine strain.
If in this strife I fall, blame not your son;
Who, if he live not honour'd, must not live.
Lady R. I will not utter what my bosom feels:
Too well I love that valour which I warn.
Farewell, my son! my counsels are but vain:
And, as high Heav'n hath will'd it, all must be.
Gaze not on me; thou wilt mistake the path;
I'll point it out again. [Exit with DOUGLAS.

Enter LORD RANDOLPH and GLENALVON,
Lord R. Not in her presence.

Tho' slain and baffled by the hand he hated. Foaming with rage and fury to the last, Cursing his conqueror, the felon died.

Re-enter ANNA,

Anna. My lord! my lord!

Lord R. Speak! I can hear of horror.

Anna. Horror, indeed!

Lord R. Matilda

Anna. Is no more:

She ran, she flew like lightning up the hill,
Nor halted till the precipice she gain'd,
Beneath whose low'ring top the river falls
Ingulf'd in rifted rocks: thither she came,
As fearless as the eagle lights upon it,
And headlong down-

Lord R. "Twas I, alas! 'twas I

That fill'd her breast with fury; drove her down The precipice of death! Wretch that I am!

In vain complaints, the passion of my soul.
Peace in this world I never can enjoy.
These wounds the gratitude of Randolph gave:
They speak aloud, and with the voice of fate
Denounce my doom. I am resolv'd. I'll go
Straight to the battle, where the man that makes
Me turn aside must threaten worse than death.
Thou, faithful to thy mistress, take this ring,
Full warrant of my power. Let every rite
With cost and pomp upon their funerals wait;
For Randolph hopes he never shall return.

[Exeunt.

DONACHA BAN, or Fair-haired Duncan -a name given to him in his youth, when he was noted for his personal beauty-was born in Druimliaghart (Glenorchy), Argyleshire, March 20, 1724. He was employed in early life as a forester by the Earl of Breadalbane, and upon the breaking out of the rebellion in 1745 went to the field as one of his followers, joining the Breadalbane regiment of fencibles, which led him to take part, much against his will (for he was a stout adherent of the Stuarts), in the battle of Falkirk. In the retreat he had the misfortune to lose his sword. Of that battle the Gaelic bard has given a minute description in an admirable song, which forms the first in his collection of poems, first published at Edinburgh in 1768. For above onehalf of his long and eventful career he dwelt among his native hills, haunting 'Coire Cheathaich" at all hours, and composing his mountain music, and sometimes travelling about the country collecting subscriptions to his poems. During these Highland expeditions he was always dressed in the Highland garb. His poems were republished in 1790; and a third edition, with some additional

pieces, appeared in 1804. For six years he was sergeant in the Breadalbane Fencibles, and when that regiment was disbanded in 1799 he procured, through the influence of the Earl of Breadalbane, his constant friend through life, a place in the City Guard of Edinburgh, those poor old veterans so savagely described by Fergusson in "Leith Races":

"Their stumps, erst used to philabegs,
Are dight in spatterdashes,
Whase barkent hides scarce fend their legs
Fra weet and weary splashes
O dirt that day!"

He was then seventy-five years of age. About this time he composed a quaint long rhyme in praise of Dunedin or Edinburgh, in which he described the Castle. Holyrood Abbey, &c., his sharp hunter's eye taking in everything as he wandered through the streets of the city. In 1802 Duncan visited his home in the Highlands, and there composed, in his seventyeighth year, the most beautiful of all his poems, "The Last Farewell to the Hills." Another of his compositions, pronounced by Robert Buchanan, who translated it, his master-piece, is a description of the great corri at

Glenorchy, where the poet in early life loved to roam. The venerable Highlander died in Edinburgh, May, 1812, and was buried in the Grayfriars' churchyard. A noble monument has been erected to his memory in Glenorchy. Macintyre's biographer, in Reid's Bibliotheca Scoto Celtica, says: "All good judges of Celtic poetry agree that nothing like the purity of his Gaelic and the style of his poetry has appeared in the Highlands since the days of Ossian." Another full and sympathetic account of the gifted Duncan may be found in The Land of Lorne, by Buchanan, who writes: 46 What Burns is to the Lowlands of Scotland, Duncan Ban is to the Highlands, and more; for Duncan never made a poem, long or short, which was not set to a tune, and he first sang them himself as he wandered like a venerable bard of old. . . . His fame endures wherever the Gaelic language is spoken, and his songs are sung all over the civilized world. Without the bitterness and intellectual power of Burns, he possessed much of his tenderness; and as a literary prodigy, who could not even write, he is still more remarkable

than Burns. Moreover, the old simple-hearted forester, with his fresh love of nature, his shrewd insight, and his impassioned speech, seems a far completer figure than the Ayrshire | ploughman, who was doubtless a glorious creature, but most obtrusive in his independence. Poor old Duncan was never bitter. The world was wonderful, and he was content to fill a humble place in it. He had an independent mind,' but was quite friendly to rank and power wherever he saw them; for, after all, what were they to Coire Cheathaich, with its natural splendours? What was the finest robe in Dunedin to the gay clothing on the side of Ben Dorain? . . In the life of Burns we see the light striking through the storm-cloud, lurid, terrific, yet always light from heaven. In the life of Duncan Ban there is nothing but a gray light of peace and purity, such as broods over the mountains when the winds are laid. Burns was the mightier poet, the grander human soul; but many who love him best, and cherish his memory most tenderly, can find a place in their hearts for Duncan Ban as well."

Oh mony a turn of woe and weal

May happen to a Highlan' man: Though he fall in love he soon may feel He cannot get the fancied one. The first I loved in time that's past I courted twenty years, ochone! But she forsook me at the last, And Duncan then was left alone.

To Edinbro' I forthwith hied,

To seek a sweetheart to my mind, An' if I could, to find a bride

For the fause love I left behind; Said Captain Campbell of the Guard, "I ken a widow secretly,

An' I'll try, as she's no that ill faur'd, To put her, Duncan, in your way."

As was his wont, I trow, did he

Fulfil his welcome promise true, He gave the widow unto me,

And all her portion with her too; And whosoe'er may ask her name,

And her surname also may desire,

They call her Janet-great her fame

An' 'twas George who was her grandsire.

She's quiet, an' affable, an' free,

No vexing gloom or look at hand, As high in rank and in degree

As any lady in the land; She's my support and my relief,

Since e'er she join'd me, anyhow; Great is the cureless cause of grief

To him who has not got her now! Nie-Coiseam I forsaken quite,

Although she liveth still at easeAn' allow the crested stags to fight

And wander wheresoe'er they please; A young wife I have chosen now,

Which I repent not anywhere,

I am not wanting wealth, I trow,
Since ever I espoused the fair.

I pass my word of honour bright—
Most excellent I do her call;

A favourite fowling piece to which he composed another song.-ED.

In her I ne'er, in any light,
Discover'd any fault at all.
She is stately, fine, an' straight, an' sound,
Without a hidden fault, my friend;

In her defect I never found,

Nor yet a blemish, twist, or bend.

When needy folk are pinch'd, alas!

For money in a great degree;
Ah! George's daughter-generous lass-
Ne'er lets my pockets empty be;
She keepeth me in drink, and stays
By me in ale-houses and all,

An' at once, without a word, she pays
For every stoup I choose to call!

An' every turn I bid her do

She does it with a willing grace; She never tells me aught untrue,

Nor story false, with lying face;
She keeps my rising family

As well as I could e'er desire,
Although no labour I do try,
Nor dirty work for love or hire.

I labour'd once laboriously,

Although no riches I amass'd; A menial I disdain'd to be,

An' keep my vow unto the last; I have ceased to labour in the lan', Since e'er I noticed to my wife, That the idle and contented man

Endureth to the longest life.

'Tis my musket-loving wife, indeedIn whom I faithfully believe, She's able still to earn my bread,

An' Duncan she will ne'er deceive; I'll have no lack of linens fair,

An' plenty clothes to serve my turn, An' trust me that all worldly care Now gives me not the least concern.

I roam'd in the wood, many a tendril survey ing,

All shapely from branch to stem, My eye, as it look'd, its ambition betraying To cull the fairest from them;

One branch of perfume, in blossom all over, Bent lowly down to my hand,

And yielded its bloom, that hung high from each lover,

To me, the least of the band.

I went to the river, one net cast I threw in,
Where the stream's transparence ran,
Forget shall I never, how the beauty I drew in,
Shone bright as the gloss of the swan.
Oh, happy the day that crown'd my affection
With such a prize to my share!

My love is a ray, a morning reflection,
Beside me she sleeps, a star.

MARY, THE YOUNG, THE FAIR-HAIR'D.

My young, my fair, my fair-hair'd Mary,
My life-time love, my own!

The vows I heard, when my kindest dearie.
Was bound to me alone,

By covenant true, and ritual holy,

Gave happiness all but divine;

Nor needed there more to transport me wholly, Than the friends that hail'd thee mine.

COIRE CHEATHAICH;

OR, THE GLEN OF THE MIST.

My beauteous corri! where cattle wander-
My misty corri! my darling dell!
Mighty, verdant, and covered over

With wild flowers tender of the sweetest smell; Dark is the green of thy grassy clothing,

Soft swell thy hillocks most green and deep, The cannach blowing, the darnel growing, While the deer troop past to the misty steep.

Fine for wear is thy beauteous mantle, Strongly-woven and ever new,

Was far, but I rivall'd the wind,

The grass all spangled with diamond dew;