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God wot! full many a pagan must in his saddle reel:

What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, if once that weight ye feel?

But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the foe,

Quoth he, "I've seen some flail-arm'd man belabour barley so:

Sure mortal mould did ne'er enfold such mastery of


Let's call Diego Perez the Pounder from this



The Wood.

WHENCE is the secret charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening mildly sleeps?
I tread with lingering feet the quiet steeps,
Where thwarted oaks o'er their own old age brood;
And where the gentler trees in summer weather
Spring up all greenly in their youth together:
And the grass is dwelling in a silent mood,
And the fir-like fern its under-forest keeps
In a strange stillness. My wing'd spirit sweeps
Forth as it hath been wont; nor stays with me,
Like some domestic thing that loves its home.
It goes a-dreaming o'er the imagery

Of other scenes, which from afar do come,
Watching them with this indolent solitude.

Here; I am dwelling in the days gone by-
And under trees which I have known before:
My heart with feelings old is running o'er
And I am thrill'd-thrill'd at an evening sky
The present seems a mockery of the past,
And all my thoughts glide by me, like a stream
That seeks a home,—that shines beneath the beam
Of the summer sun,—and wanders through sweet

In which the joyous wildflower meekly feeds,-
And strays, and wastes away in woods at last.
My thoughts o'er many things glance silently;
But to this olden forest creep, and cling fast.
Imagination, ever wild and free,

With heart as open as the naked sea,
Can consecrate whate'er it looks upon :
And memory, that maiden never alone,
Cons o'er the tale of life. While I can see

This blue, deep sky-that sun so proudly setting
In the haughty west-that spring patiently wet-


The shadowy dell-these trees so tall and fair,
That have no visitors but the birds and air;
And hear those leaves a gentle murmur keep,
Like brooks that make soft music in their sleep;
The melting of young waters in the dells,
The jingle of the loose flock's lulling bells;
While these all mingling o'er my senses sweep,
I need not doubt but I shall ever find

Things, that will feed the cravings of my mind.
My happiest hours were pass'd with those I love
On steeps; in dells with shadowy trees above;

And therefore it may be my soul ne'er sleeps,
When it is in a pastoral solitude;

And such may be the charm of this lone wood,
Which in the light of evening sweetly sleeps.


The Old Scottish Cavalier'.

COME, listen to another song,
Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;—
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,

And of a baron stout and bold

As e'er wore sword on thigh:

Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,

All of the olden time.

1 The hero of this spirited poem is Alexander Forbes Lord Pitsligo, whom Professor Aytoun, in his introduction to the song, calls "the best type of the Lowland cavalier of the period" (1715-1760). The professor goes on to inform us that Lord Pitsligo having been educated abroad and early introduced to the circle at St. Germain's, conceived a deep personal attachment to the members of the exiled line, that he was the intimate friend of Fénélon, and throughout his whole life was remarkable rather for his piety and virtue than for keenness in political dispute. Upon the death of Queen Anne he joined himself in arms with a general insurrection of the Highlanders and Jacobites, headed by the Earl of Mar. On the dissolution of this confederacy Lord Pitsligo, with others, was compelled to fly abroad and remained in exile five or six years. He returned

He kept his castle in the north,

Hard by the thundering Spey :

And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they.

And not a man of all that clan

Had ever ceased to pray

For the royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away

From the stedfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time.

His father drew the righteous sword
For Scotland and her claims,
Among the royal gentlemen

And chiefs of ancient names

to Scotland in 1720, and resided at his castle in Aberdeenshire, not mingling in public affairs but gaining, through his charity, kindness, and benevolence, the respect and affection of all around him. He was sixty-seven years of age when Charles Edward landed in Scotland, and after considerable hesitation he determined to put himself at the head of the Jacobite gentry of his neighbourhood. They formed a body of well-armed cavalry, gentlemen and their servants, to the number of a hundred men. When they were drawn up in readiness to commence the expedition, the venerable nobleman their leader moved to their front, lifted his hat and looking up to heaven pronounced with a solemn voice the awful appeal "O Lord, Thou knowest that our cause is just!" then added the signal for departure, "March, gentlemen!" After Culloden he became like many more a fugitive and an outlaw; but he succeeded like the Baron of Bradwardine in finding a shelter upon the skirts of his own estate. For ten years he remained concealed, and his adventures and escapes are rather more romantic and extraordinary than those of other Jacobite gentlemen. After the lapse of many years he was permitted to remain without molestation at the residence of his son, where he died in 1762, at the age of 85 The whole of Professor Aytoun's note will repay perusal.

Who swore to fight, or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie pass
With the glory of the Græmes;
Like a fine old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time.

He never own'd the foreign rule,
No master he obey'd,

But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;

And when they ask'd him for his oath,
He touch'd his glittering blade,

And pointed to his bonnet blue,

That bore the white cockade:

Like a leat old Scottish cavalier,

All of the olden time.

At length the news ran through the land

The prince had come again!

That night the fiery cross was sped

O'er mountain and through glen;

And our old baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,

And rode away across the hills

To Charlie and his


With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time.

He was the first that bent the knee
When the standard waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;

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