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The hunter's call to Faun and Dryad known; The oak-crown'd sisters, and their chaste-ey'd


Satyrs and sylvan boys were seen, Peeping from forth their alleys green; Brown Exercise rejoic'd to hear,

And Sport leapt up, and seiz'd his beechen spear. Last came Joy's ecstatic trial, He, with viny crown advancing,

First to the lively pipe his hand addrest, But soon he saw the brisk-awakening viol, Whose sweet entrancing voice he lov'd the best. They would have thought, who heard the strain, They saw in Tempe's vale her native maids, Amidst the festal sounding shades,

To some unwearied minstrel dancing,

While, as his flying fingers kiss'd the strings,
Love fram'd with Mirth a gay fantastic round,
Loose were her tresses seen, her zone unbound,
And he, amidst his frolic play,

As if he would the charming air repay,
Shook thousand odours from his dewy wings.
O Music, sphere-descended maid,
Friend of pleasure, wisdom's aid,
Why, goddess, why to us denied,
Lay'st thou thy antient lyre aside?
As in that lov'd Athenian bower,
You learn'd an all-commanding power,
Thy mimic soul, O nymph endear'd,
Can well recall what then it heard.
Where is thy native simple heart,
Devote to virtue, fancy, art?
Arise, as in that elder time,
Warm, energic, chaste, sublime!
Thy wonders, in that god-like age,
Fill thy recording sister's page---
'T is said, and I believe the tale,
Thy humblest reed could more prevail,
Had more of strength, diviner rage,
Than all which charms this laggard age,
E'en all at once together found
Cæcilia's mingled world of sound-
O, bid our vain endeavours cease,
Revive the just desigus of Greece,
Return in all thy simple state'
Confirm the tales her sons relate!



WHILE, born to bring the Muse's happier days,
A patriot's hand protects a poet's lays;
While, nurs'd by you, she sees her myrtles bloom,
Green and unwither'd o'er his honour'd tomb:
Excuse her doubts, if yet she fears to tell
What secret transports in her bosom swell:
With conscious awe she hears the critic's fame,
And blushing hides her wreath at Shakespeare's


Hard was the lot those injur'd strains endur'd,
Unown'd by science, and by years obscur'd:
Fair Fancy wept, and echoing sighs confess'd
A fixt despair in every tuneful breast.
Not with more grief th' afflicted swains appear,
When wintery winds deform the plenteous year;
When lingering frosts the ruin'd seats invade
Where Peace resorted, and the Graces play'd,

Each rising art by just gradation moves, Toil builds on toil, and age on age improves : The Muse alone unequal dealt her rage,

And grac'd with noblest pomp her earliest stage.
Preserv'd through time, the speaking scenes impart
Each changeful wish of Phædra's tortur'd heart:
Or paint the curse that mark'd the Theban's reign,
A bed incestuous, and a father slain.

With kind ncern our pitying eyes o'erflow,
Trace the sad tale, and own another's woe.

To Rome remov'd, with wit secure to please,
The comic sisters keep their native ease.
With jealous fear declining Greece beheld
Her own Menander's art almost excell'd!
But every Muse essay'd to raise in vain
Some labour'd rival of her tragic strain;
Hyssus' laurels, though transferr'd with toil,
Droop'd their fair leaves, nor knew th' unfriendly

As arts expir'd, resistless Dulness rose; Goths, priests, or Vandals,-all were learning's foes.

Till Julius first recall'd each exil'd maid,
And Cosmo own'd them in th' Etrurian shade:
Then, deeply skill'd in love's engaging theme,
The soft Provencial pass'd to Arno's stream:
With graceful ease the wanton lyre he strung,
Sweet flow'd the lays-but love was all he sung.
The gay description could not fail to move;
For, led by nature, all are friends to love.

But Heaven, still various in its works, decreed
The perfect boast of time should last succeed,
The beauteous union must appear at length,
Of Tuscan fancy, and Athenian strength:
One greater Muse Eliza's reign adorn,
And e'en a Shakespeare to her fame be born!

Yet, ah! so bright her morning's opening ray, In vain our Britain hop'd an equal day!

No second growth the western isle could bear,
At once exhausted with too rich a year.
Too nicely Jonson knew the critic's part;
Nature in him was almost lost in art.

Of softer mould the gentle Fletcher came,
The next in order, as the next in name.
With pleas'd attention 'midst his scenes we find
Each glowing thought, that warms the female

Fach melting sigh, and every tender tear,
The lover's wishes, and the virgin's fear.
His every strain the Smiles and Graces own;
But stronger Shakespeare felt for man alone:
Drawn by his pen, our ruder passions stand
Th' unrival'd picture of his early hand.

With gradual steps,4 and slow, exacter France
Saw Art's fair empire o'er her shores advance:
By length of toil a bright perfection knew,
Correctly bold, and just in all she drew.

The Edipus of Sophocles.

2. Julias II., the immediate predecessor of Leo X, 3 Their characters are thus distinguished by Mr. Dryden.

4 About the time of Shakespeare, the poet Hardy was in great repute in France. He wrote, according to Fontenelle, six hundred plays. The French poets after him applied themselves in general to the correct improvement of the stage, which was almost totally disregarded by those of our own country, Jonson excepted,

Till late Corneille, with Lucan's 5 spirit fir'd,
Breath'd the free strain, as Rome and he inspir'd;
And classic judgment gain'd to sweet Racine
The temperate strength of Maro's chaster line.
But wilder far the British laurel spread,
And wreaths less artful crown our poet's head.
Yet he alone to every scene could give

Th' historian's truth, and bid the manners live.
Wak'd at his call I view, with glad surprise,
Majestic forms of mighty monarchs rise.
There Henry's trumpets spread their loud alarms,
And laurel'd Conquest waits her hero's arms.
Here gentler Edward claims a pitying sigh,
Scarce born to honours, and so soon to die!
Yet shall thy throne, unhappy infant, bring
No beam of comfort to the guilty king:

The time shall come when Glo'ster's heart shall bleed
In life's last hours, with horrour of the deed:
When dreary visions shall at last present
Thy vengeful image in the midnight tent:

Thy hand unseen the secret death shall bear,
Blunt the weak sword, and break th' oppressive


Where'er we turn, by Fancy charm'd, we find Some sweet illusion of the cheated mind. Oft, wild of wing, she calls the soul to rove With humbler nature, in the rural grove; Where swains contented own the quiet scene, And twilight fairies tread the circled green: Dress'd by her hand, the woods and valleys smile, And Spring diffusive decks th' enchanted isle.

O, more than all in powerful genius blest,
Come, take thine empire o'er the willing breast!
Whate'er the wounds this youthful heart shall feel,
Thy songs support me, and thy morals heal!
There every thought the poet's warmth may raise,
There native music dwells in all the lays.

O, might some verse with happiest skill persuade
Expressive Picture to adopt thine aid!
What wondrous draughts might rise from every

What other Raphaels charm a distant age!

Methinks e'en now I view some free design,
Where breathing Nature lives in every line:
Chaste and subdued the modest lights decay,
Steal into shades, and mildly melt away.
-And see, where Anthony 6, in tears approv'd,
Guards the pale relics of the chief he lov'd:
O'er the cold corse the warrior seems to bend,
Deep sunk in grief, and mourns his murder'd friend!
Still as they press, he calls on all around,
Lifts the torn robe, and points the bleeding wound.
But who is he7, whose brows exalted bear

A wrath impatient, and a fiercer air?
Awake to all that injur'd worth can feel,
On his own Rome he turns th' avenging steel.
Yet shall not war's insatiate fury fall
(So Heaven ordains it) on the destin❜d wall.
See the fond mother, 'midst the plaintive train,
Hung on his knees, and prostrate on the plain!
Touch'd to the soul, in vain he strives to hide
The son's affection in the Roman's pride:
O'er all the man conflicting passions rise,
Rage grasps the sword, while Pity melts the eyes.

5 The favourite author of the elder Corneille.

6 See the tragedy of Julius Cæsar.

7 Coriolanus. See Mr. Spence's dialogue on the Odyssey.

Thus, generous critic, as thy bard inspires, The sister Arts shall nurse their drooping fires: Each from his scenes her stores alternate bring, Blend the fair tints, or wake the vocal string: Those Sibyl-leaves, the sport of every wind, (For poets ever were a careless kind) By thee dispos'd, no farther toil demand, But, just to Nature, own thy forming hand.

So spread o'er Greece, th' harmonious whole unknown,

E'en Homer's numbers charm'd by parts alone.
Their own Ulysses scarce had wander'd more,
By winds and waters cast on every shore:
When rais'd by Fate, some former Hanmer join'd
Each beauteous image of the boundless mind;
And bade, like thee, his Athens ever claim
A fond alliance with the poet's name.



To fair Fidele's grassy tomb

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing Spring.
No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove,
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.
No wither'd witch shall here be seen,

No goblins lead their nightly crew;
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew;
The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.
When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake thy sylvan cell;
Or 'midst the chase on every plain,
The tender thought on thee shall dwell.
Each lonely scene shall thee restore,
For thee the tear be duly shed;
Belov'd, till life can charm no more;
And mourn'd, till Pity's self be dead.




IN yonder grave a Druid lies

Where slowly winds the stealing wave:
The year's best sweets shall duteous rise,
To deck its poet's sylvan grave.

In yon deep bed of whispering reeds
His airy harp' shall now be laid,
That he, whose heart in sorrow bleeds,
May love through life the soothing shade.

The harp of Eolus, of which see a description in the Castle of Indolence.

Then maids and youths shall linger here,
And, while its sounds at distance swell,
Shall sadly seem in Pity's ear

To hear the woodland pilgrim's knell.
Remembrance oft shall haunt the shore

When Thames in summer wreaths is drest, And oft suspend the dashing oar

To bid his gentle spirit rest! And oft as Ease and Health retire

To breezy lawn, or forest deep,

The friend shall view yon whitening spire',
And 'mid the varied landscape weep.
But thou, who own'st that earthly bed,
Ah! what will every dirge avail?

Or tears which Love and Pity shed,

That mourn beneath the gliding sail! Yet lives there one, whose heedless eye

Shall scorn thy pale shrine glimmering near? With him, sweet bard, may Fancy die,

And Joy desert the blooming year.

But thou, lorn stream, whose sullen tide
No sedge-crown'd sisters now attend,
Now waft me from the green hill's side
Whose cold turf hides the buried friend!
And see, the fairy valleys fade.

Dun Night has veil'd the solemn view!
Yet once again, dear parted shade,

Meek Nature's child, again adieu!

The genial meads 3 assign'd to bless

Thy life, shall mourn thy early doom! Their hinds and shepherd-girls shall dress With simple hands thy rural tomb. Long, long, thy stone, and pointed clay

Shall melt the musing Briton's eyes, "O! vales, and wild woods," shall he say, "In yonder grave your Druid lies!"



YE curious bands, that, hid from vulgar eyes,
By search profane shall find this hallow'd cake,
With Virtue's awe forbear the sacred prize,

Nor dare a theft for Love and Pity's sake!
This precious relic, form'd by magic power,
Beneath the shepherd's haunted pillow laid,
Was meant by Love to charm the silent hour,
The secret present of a matchless maid.
The Cyprian queen, at Hymen's fond request,

Each nice ingredient chose with happiest art; Fears, sighs, and wishes, of th' enamour'd breast, And pains that please, are mixt in every part. With rosy hand the spicy fruit she brought,

From Paphian hills, and fair Cytherea's isle; And temper'd sweet with these the melting thought, The kiss ambrosial, and the yielding smile. Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent, Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth,

2 Mr. Thomson was buried in Richmond church. 3 Mr. Thomson resided in the neighbourhood of Richmond some time before his death.

Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,

And meeting ardours, and exulting youth. Sleep, wayward god! hath sworn, while these remain, With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear, And cheerful Hope, so oft invok'd in vain, With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear. If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side, And fond of soul, thou hop'st an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide, O, much entreated, leave this fatal place. Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plaintive day, Consents at length to bring me short delight, Thy careless steps may scare her doves away, And Grief with raven note usurp the night.










HOME, thou return'st from Thames, whose Naiads
Have seen thee lingering with a fond delay, [long
Mid those soft friends, whose hearts some future

Shall melt, perhaps, to hear thy tragic song '.
Go, not unmindful of that cordial youth


Whom, long endear'd, thou leav'st by Lavant's Together let us wish him lasting truth

And joy untainted with his destin'd bride.
Go! nor regardless, while these numbers boast
My short-liv'd bliss, forget my social name;
But think, far off, how, on the Southern coast,
I met thy friendship with an equal flame!
Fresh to that soil thou turn'st, where every vale
Shall prompt the poet, and his song demand:
To thee thy copious subjects ne'er shall fail;

Thou need'st but take thy pencil to thy hand, And paint what all believe, who own thy genial land. There must thou wake perforce thy Doric quill;

'Tis Fancy's land to which thou sett'st thy feet; Where still, 't is said, the fairy people meet, Beneath each birken shade, on mead or hill. There each trim lass, that skims the milky store To the swart tribes, their creamy bowls alots; By night they sip it round the cottage-door,

While airy minstrels warble jocund notes. There, every herd, by sad experience, knows How, wing'd with fate, their elf-shot arrows fly, When the sick ewe her summer food forgoes,

Or, stretch'd on earth, the heart-smit heifers lie. Such airy beings awe th' untutor'd swain: [lect; Nor thou, tho' learn'd, his homelier thoughts neg

How truly did Collins predict Home's tragic powers!

2 A gentleman of the name of Barrow, who introduced Home to Collins.


Let thy sweet Muse the rural faith sustain ;
These are the themes of simple, sure effect,
That add new conquests to her boundless reign,
And fill with double force her heart-command-
ing strain.

E'en yet preserv'd, how often mayst thou hear,
Where to the pole the Boreal mountains run,
Taught by the father, to his listening son; [ear.
Strange lays, whose power had charm'd, a Spenser's
At every pause, before thy mind possest,

Old Runic bards shall seem to rise around, With uncouth lyres, in many-colour'd vest,

Their matted hair with boughs fantastic crown'd: Whether thou bidd'st the well-taught hind repeat The choral dirge that mourns some chieftain brave, When every shrieking maid her bosom beat,

And strew'd with choicest herbs his scented grave; Or, whether sitting in the shepherd's shiel 3,

Thou hear'st some sounding tale of war's alarms; When at the bugle's call, with fire and steel,

The sturdy clans pour'd forth their brawny swarms, And hostile brothers met, to prove each other's arms. "T is thine to sing, how, framing hideous spells, In Sky's lone isle, the gifted wizard-seer, Lodg'd in the wintery cave with Fate's fell spear, Or in the depth of Uist's dark forest dwells: [gross, How they, whose sight such dreary dreams enWith their own vision oft astonish'd droop;

When, o'er the watery strath, or quaggy moss, They see the gliding ghosts unbodied troop.

Or, if in sports, or on the festive green,
Their destin'd glance some fated youth descry,
Who now, perhaps, in lusty vigour seen,
And rosy health, shall soon lamented die.

For them the viewless forms of air obey;
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair.

They know what spirit brews the stormful day, And heartless, oft like moody madness, stare [pare. To see the phantom train their secret work preTo monarchs dear, some hundred miles astray, Oft have I seen Fate give the fatal blow!

The seer, in Sky, shriek'd as the blood did flow, When headless Charles warm on the scaffold lay!

3 A summer hut, built in the high part of the mountains, to tend their flocks in the warm season, when the pasture is fine.

4 By the public prints we are informed, that a Scotch clergyman lately discovered Collins's rude draught of this poem. It is, however, said to be very imperfect. The fifth stanza, and the half of the sixth, say those prints, being deficient, has been supplied by Mr. Mackenzie; whose lines are here annexed, for the purpose of comparison, and to do justice to the elegant author of the Man of Feeling. "Or on some bellying rock that shades the deep, They view the lurid signs that cross the sky, Where in the west the brooding tempests lie; And hear their first, faint, rustling pennons sweep. Or in the arched cave, where deep and dark

The broad, unbroken billows heave and swell, In horrid musings rapt, they sit to mark

The lab'ring Moon; or list the nightly yell Of that dread spirit, whose gigantic form

The seer's entranced eye can well survey, Through the dim air who guides the driving storm, And points the wretched bark its destin'd prey.

As Boreas threw his young Aurora forth,

In the first year of the first George's reign, And battles rag'd in welkin of the North,

They mourn'd in air, fell, fell Rebellion slain! And as, of late, they joy'd in Preston's fight,

Saw at sad Falkirk all their hopes near crown'd! They rav'd! divining thro' their second sight",

Pale, red Culloden, where these hopes were drown'd!

Illustrious William7! Britain's guardian name!
One William sav'd us from a tyrant's stroke;
He, for a sceptre gain'd heroic fame,

[broke, But thou, more glorious, Slavery's chain hast To reign a private man, and bow to Freedom's yoke! These, too, thou 'It sing! for well thy magic


Can to the topmost heaven of grandeur soar; Or stoop to wail the swain that is no more! Ah, homely swains! your homeward steps ne'er loose;

Let not dank Will mislead you to the heath: Dancing in mirky night, o'er fen and lake,

He glows, to draw you downward to your death, In his bewitch'd, low, marshy, willow brake! What though far off, from some dark dell espied,

His glimmering mazes cheer th' excursive sight, Yet turn, ye wanderers, turn your steps aside, Nor trust the guidance of that faithless light; For watchful, lurking, 'mid th' unrustling reed, At those mirk hours the wily monster lies, And listens oft to hear the passing steed,

And frequent round him rolls his sullen eyes, If chance his savage wrath may some weak wretch surprise.

Ah, luckless swain, o'er all unblest, indeed!

Whom late bewilder'd in the dank, dark fen, Far from his flocks, and smoking hamlet, then! To that sad spot where hums the sedgy weed: Shall never look with pity's kind concern, On him, enrag'd, the fiend, in angry mood,

Or him who hovers on his flagging wing,

O'er the dire whirlpool, that, in ocean's waste, Draws instant down whate'er devoted thing

The distant seaman hears, and flies with trembling The falling breeze within its reach hath plac'd— Or, if on land the fiend exerts his sway, [haste. Silent he broods o'er quicksand, bog or fen,

Far from the sheltering roof and haunts of men, When witched darkness shuts the eye of day, And shrouds each star that wont to cheer the

Or, if the drifted snow perplex the way,


With treacherous gleam he lures the fated wight, And leads him floundering on and quite astray."

5 By young Aurora, Collins undoubtedly meant the first appearance of the northern lights, which happened about the year 1715; at least, it is most highly probable, from this peculiar circumstance, that no antient writer whatever has taken any notice of them, nor even any one modern, previous to the above period.

6 Second sight is the term that is used for the divination of the Highlanders.

7 The late duke of Cumberland, who defeated the pretender at the battle of Culloden.

8 A fiery meteor, called by various names, such as Will with the Wisp, Jack with the Lantern, &c. It hovers in the air over marshy and fenny places.

But instant, furious, raise the whelming flood O'er its drown'd banks, forbidding all return! Or, if he meditate his wish'd escape, To some dim hill that seems uprising near,

To his faint eye, the grim and grisly shape, In all its terrours clad, shall wild appear.

Meantime the watery surge shall round him rise, Pour'd sudden forth from every swelling source!

What now remains but tears and hopeless sighs? His fear-shook limbs have lost their youthly force, And down the waves he floats, a pale and breathless corse!

For him in vain his anxious wife shall wait,
Or wander forth to meet him on his way;
For him in vain, at to-fall of the day,

His babes shall linger at th' unclosing gate;
Ah, ne'er shall he return! Alone, if night

Her travell❜d limbs in broken slumbers steep, With drooping willows drest his mournful sprite Shall visit sad, perchance, her silent sleep: Then he perhaps, with moist and watery hand, Shall fondly seem to press her shuddering cheek, And with his blue-swoln face before her stand, And, shivering cold, these piteous accents speak: "Pursue, dear wife, thy daily toils, pursue,

At dawn or dusk, industrious as before; Nor e'er of me one helpless thought renew, While I lie weltering on the osier'd shore,

And of its eggs despoil the solan's nest.
Thus blest in primal innocence they live,
Suffic'd and happy with that frugal fare

Which tasteful toil and hourly danger give.
Hard is their shallow soil, and bleak and bare;

Nor ever vernal bee was heard to murmur there! Nor need'st thou blush that such false themes enThy gentle mind, of fairer stores possest; [gage For not alone they touch the village breast, But fill'd in elder time th' historic page. [crown'd, There, Shakespeare's self, with ev'ry garland Flew to those fairy climes his fancy sheen,

In musing hour; his wayward sisters found, And with their terrours dress'd the magic scené. From them he sung, when, 'mid his bold design, Before the Scot, afflicted, and aghast!

The shadowy kings of Banquo's fated line Through the dark cave in gleamy pageant pass'd. Proceed! nor quit the tales which, simply told, Could once so well my answering bosom pierce; Proceed, in forceful sounds, and colour bold, To such adapt thy lyre, and suit thy powerful verse. The native legends of thy land rehearse; In scenes like these, which, daring to depart

From sober truth, are still to Nature true, And call forth fresh delight to Fancy's view, Th' heroic Muse employ'd her Tasso's art.

How have I trembled, when, at Tancred's stroke,

Drown'd by the Kelpie's 9 wrath, nor e'er shall aid Its gushing blood the gaping cypress pour'd!

thee more!"

Unbounded is thy range; with varied skill [spring
Thy Muse may, like those feathery tribes which
From their rude rocks, extend her skirting wing
Round the moist marge of each cold Hebrid isle,
To that hoar pile 10 which still its ruin shows:
In whose small vaults a Pigmy-folk is found,

Whose bones the delver with his spade upthrows, And culls them, wond'ring, from the hallow'd ground! Or thither, where beneath the show'ry west

The mighty kings of three fair realms are laid : Once foes, perhaps, together now they rest,

No slaves revere them, and no wars invade : Yet frequent now, at midnight solemn hour,

The rifted mounds their yawning cells unfold, And forth the monarchs stalk with sovereign power, . In pageant robes, and wreath'd with sheeny gold, And on their twilight tombs aërial council hold.

But, oh, o'er all, forget not Kilda's race, [tides, On whose bleak rocks, which brave the wasting Fair Nature's daughter, Virtue, yet abides. Go! just, as they, their blameless manners trace! Then to my ear transmit some gentle song, Of those whose lives are yet sincere and plain, Their bounded walks the rugged cliffs along, And all their prospect but the wintery main.

With sparing temperance at the needful time They drain the scented spring; or, hunger-prest, Along th' Atlantic rock, undreading, climb,

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9 The water fiend.

When each live plant with mortal accents spoke, And the wild blast upheav'd the vanish'd sword! How have I sat, when pip'd the pensive wind, To hear his harp by British Fairfax strung!

Prevailing poet! whose undoubting mind Believ'd the magic wonders which he sung!

Hence, at each sound, imagination glows! Hence, at each picture, vivid life starts here!

Hence his warm lay with softest sweetness flows! Melting it flows, pure, murmuring, strong, and clear, And fills th' empassion'd heart, and wins th' harmonious ear!

All hail, ye scenes that o'er my soul prevail !

Ye splendid friths and lakes, which, far away, Are by smooth Anan 13 fill'd, or past'ral Tay '3, Or Don's 13 romantic springs, at distance, hail! The time shall come, when I, perhaps, may tread

Your lowly glens140'erhung with spreading broom; Or o'er your stretching heaths, by Fancy led; Then will I dress once more the faded bower, Or o'er your mountains creep, in awful gloom!

Where Jonson sat in Drummond's classic shade15; Or crop, from Tiviotdale, each lyric flower, [laid! And mourn, on Yarrow's banks, where Willy's Meantime, ye powers, that on the plains which bore The cordial youth, on Lothian's plains16, attend!Where'er Home dwells, on hill or lowly moor,

To him I lose, your kind protection lend, And, touch'd with love like mine, preserve my absent friend!

12 An aquatic bird like a goose, on the eggs of which the inhabitants of St. Kilda, another of the

13 Three rivers in Scotland.

10 One of the Hebrides is called the Isle of Pig-Hebrides, chiefly subsist. mies; where it is reported that several miniature bones of the human species have been dug up in the ruins of a chapel there.

"Icolmkill, one of the Hebrides, where near sixty of the ancient Scottish, Irish, and Norwegian kings are interred.

14 Valleys.

15 Ben Jonson paid a visit on foot, in 1619, to the Scotch poet, Drummond, at his seat of Hawthornden, within four miles of Edinburgh.


Barrow, it seems, was at the Edinburgh University, which is in the county of Lothian.

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