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“ Erin, my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreains I revisit thy sea-beaten shore; But, alas! in a far foreign land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more ! Oh cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chase me! Never again shall my brothers embrace me! They died to defend me, or live to deplore!

“ Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire, did ye weep for its fall? Where is the mother that looked on my childhood ?

And where is the bosom-friend dearer than all ? Ah my sad heart, long abandoned by pleasure ! Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ! Tears like the rain-drops may fall without measure ; But rapture and beauty they cannot recall.

“ Yet all its sad recollection suppressing,

One dying wish my lone bosom can draw; Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !

Land of my forefathers, Erin-go-bragh! Buried and cold when my heart stills her motion, Green be thy fields, sweetest isle of the ocean! And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devotion, Erin, mavournin Erin-go-bragh !"


Sweet Iser! were thy sunny realm,

And flowery fountains mine ;
Thy waters I would shade with elm,

To prop the tender vine.

* Ireland, my darling Ireland for ever.

My golden flagons I would fill
With rosy draughts from every hill ;

And under each green spreading bower,
My gay companions should prolong
The feast, the revel, and the song,

To many a sportive hour.

Like rivers crimsoned by the beam

Oí yonder planet bright,
Our nectar cups should ever stream

Profusion of delight!
No care should touch the mellow heart,
And sad or sober none depart,

(For wine can triumph over woe ;)
And Love and Bacchus, brother powers,
Should build in Iser's sunny bowers

A Paradise below!



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;
Woe, woe, 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, oh Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. (254)


Weep, Albin !* to death and captivity led !
Oh 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.


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.


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 battlement's 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.


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.

• The Gaelic appellation of Scotland, more particularly the Highlands

Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock !
But woe to his kindred and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanranald the dauntless, and Moray the proud ;
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array-


-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! Anointed 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

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


* An English historian, after enumerating the severe executions of the Highland rebels at Culloden, Carlisle, and elsewhere, concludes hy in. forming us, that thousands experienced his Majesty's mercy, in being transported for life to the plantations!

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--


-Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale ; For never shall Albin a destiny meet, So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat. Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in their gose, 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 fleld, 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.


On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then flew the steed, to battle driven ;

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