A HIGHLAND CORONACH,

SUPPOSED TO BE SUNG BY HIS NEPHEW,

OVER RANALD OF THE MIST.

See "Legend of Montrose."

The son of the mountain,
Whose war cry was death,
Whose drink was the fountain,
Whose couch was the heath,
Whose step was the proudest

O'er the steep and the correi,
And whose slogan rung loudest
In the front of the foray—

Lies feeble and wan on the worn couch of pain,
As an oak thunder-riven encumbers the plain.

Oh! never again shall he lead in the chase,

Nor wield his claymore 'mid the foes of his race.

O bright be the visions

Around him that hover,
And sweet be the sounds as

The wail of the plover;

When the darkness of death,

And its shadows come o'er him,

May the blood-clotted heath

And his foe be before him;

And the glory of gratified vengeance array His soul, as it flits from the regions of day.

SONG.

Oh! can I e'er the hour forget,

While yet this heart to bliss is moved?
When first our conscious glances met,
When first I knew that I was loved?
Or that more sacred hour and place,
Her blushes hid upon my breast,—
When folded in my first embrace,
Her virgin love she low confessed?

The dear remembrance hourly thrills
Through every fibre of my frame;
The glowing vision frequent fills

My raptured heart with thoughts of flame. The love that filled her upraised eyes

Her soft cheek on my bosom laid— While lifted by my burning sighs,

Her sunny tresses wanton played.

With words of love her lips apart,
And oh! her gentle meek caress!
Can all that withers up the heart

The rapture of that hour repress ?
No! till the streams of Memory

Are frozen at their fountain head, Their dearest image still shall be—

My Love upon my bosom laid!

STANZAS,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY AN ACQUAINTANCE OF THE AUTHOR,

On hearing of her Lover's sudden Death.

This world but lately was to me

A dream of bliss without alloy-
But now, oh! what a dreary waste,

Unblest by hope, or peace, or joy;
For William lies in nameless grave,
Where on the shifting billows green
The moon and stars are shimmering bright,
And cloudy shadows pass between.

Oh! scarcely have the summer flowers
Drooped in the deep deserted dell,
That late we marked in beauty spring
While wandering by the fairies' well;

And scarcely have the happy birds

Forgot the song which then they sung-

Three little months-but, oh! in them

What years of woe my heart have wrung!

W

Now since fell Death, my William dear,

Hath made my heart thine only tomb, Despair and woe and blighting grief Shall ever, ever be my doom!

For never more on earth will I

Rest my pale cheek on human breast Nor heave for earthly love a sigh,

Till by thy side in death I rest.