'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye!
Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh?
The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale,
That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale;
That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy,
And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy.
III.
'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set,
With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet;
Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows,
And loud is the song in the camp of our foes;
But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy,
When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!'
Ere died the battle-song away,
Rose up the voice of wail,
While motionless the chieftain lay,
With face like marble pale.
No kindly word from him repaid
The harper for his strain;
The hushing hand of Death was laid
On heart, and pulse, and brain!
Avon, May,1837.W. H. C. H.
[A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS.]
AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY.
'What! How's this! I told you to make one of my boots larger than t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made one smaller than t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!'
The Incensed Cockney.