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William Edmondstoune Aptoun

THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE

COME hither, Evan Cameron !
Come, stand beside my knee :
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain-side,
There's war within the blast ;
Old faces look upon me,

Old forms go trooping past:
I hear the pibroch wailing
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.

'T was I that led the Highland host
Through wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.

I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore.
I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tam'd the Lindsays' pride;
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.

A traitor sold him to his foes

O deed of deathless shame!

I charge thee, boy, if e'er thou meet
With one of Assynt's name
Be it upon the mountain's side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,

Or back'd by armed men

Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wrong'd thy sire's renown ;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!

They brought him to the Watergate,
Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart,
The hangman rode below,
They drew his hands behind his back
And bar'd his noble brow.
Then, as a hound is slipp'd from leash,
They cheer'd the common throng,

And blew the note with yell and shout
And bade him pass along.

It would have made a brave man's heart
Grow sad and sick that day,

To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.

There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow;

There sat their gaunt and wither'd dames, And their daughters all a-row.

And every open window

Was full as full might be
With black-rob'd Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!

But when he came, though pale and wan,
He look'd so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye,
The rabble rout forbore to shout,
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turn'd aside and wept.

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For seven long years thou hast not dar'd To look him in the face."

Had I been there with sword in hand,
And fifty Camerons by,

That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had peal'd the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailed men,
Not all the rebels in the south

Had borne us backwards then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,

Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!

It might not be. They placed him next Within the solemn hall,

Where once the Scottish kings were thron'd

Amidst their nobles all.

But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perjur'd traitors fill'd the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warristoun
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.

"Now, by my faith as belted knight,
And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there,
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath -
And oh, that such should be!
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me,
I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dar'd I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown!

"There is a chamber far away

Where sleep the good and brave, But a better place ye have nam'd for

me

Than by my father's grave.

For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,

This hand hath always striven, And ye raise it up for a witness still In the eye of earth and heaven. Then nail my head on yonder tower, Give every town a limb,

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Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!
How dismal 't is to see

The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree!
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arins-
The bells begin to toll-
"He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul !"
One last long peal of thunder:

The clouds are clear'd away, And the glorious sun once more looks down

Amidst the dazzling day.

"He is coming! he is coming!" Like a bridegroom from his room, Came the hero from his prison

To the scaffold and the doom. There was glory on his forehead, There was lustre in his eye, And he never walk'd to battle More proudly than to die : There was color in his visage, Though the cheeks of all were wan, And they marvell'd as they saw him pass That great and goodly man!

He mounted up the scaffold,

And he turn'd him to the crowd;
But they dar'd not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he look'd upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether

The eye of God shone through;
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,

As though the thunder slept within -
All else was calm and still.

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POETS OF QUALITY

Thomas Love Peacock

THE MEN OF GOTHAM

SEAMEN three ! what men be ye?
Gotham's three Wise Men we be.
Whither in your bowl so free?

To rake the moon from out the sea. The bowl goes trim; the moon doth shine;

And our ballast is old wine :

And your ballast is old wine.

Who art thou, so fast adrift?
I am he they call Old Care.
Here on board we will thee lift.
No: I may not enter there.
Wherefore so? 'Tis Jove's decree
In a bowl Care may not be :
In a bowl Care may not be.

Fear ye not the waves that roll?

No: in charmed bowl we swim.

What the charm that floats the bowl?
Water may not pass the brim.

The bowl goes trim; the moon doth shine;

And our ballast is old wine :
And your ballast is old wine.

THE WAR-SONG OF DINAS
VAWR

THE mountain sheep are sweeter,
But the valley sheep are fatter;
We therefore deem'd it meeter
To carry off the latter.
We made an expedition;
We met an host and quell'd it;
We forced a strong position
And kill'd the men who held it.

On Dyfed's richest valley,
Where herds of kine were browsing,
We made a mighty sally,
To furnish our carousing.
Fierce warriors rush'd to meet us;
We met them, and o'erthrew them :
They struggled hard to beat us,

But we conquer'd them, and slew them.

As we drove our prize at leisure,
The king march'd forth to catch us :
His rage surpass'd all measure,
But his people could not match us.
He fled to his hall-pillars;
And, ere our force we led off,
Some sack'd his house and cellars,
While others cut his head off.

We there, in strife bewildering,
Spilt blood enough to swim in:
We orphan'd many children
And widow'd many women.
The eagles and the ravens
We glutted with our foemen :
The heroes and the cravens,
The spearmen and the bowmen.

We brought away from battle,
And much their land bemoan'd them,
Two thousand head of cattle

And the head of him who own'd them:
Ednyfed, King of Dyfed,

His head was borne before us;

His wine and beasts supplied our feasts, And his overthrow, our chorus.

MARGARET LOVE PEACOCK

THREE YEARS OLD

LONG night succeeds thy little day :
O, blighted blossom! can it be
That this gray stone and grassy clay
Have clos'd our anxious care of thee?

The half-form'd speech of artless thought, That spoke a mind beyond thy years, The song, the dance by Nature taught, The sunny smiles, the transient tears,

The symmetry of face and form,

The eye with light and life replete, The little heart so fondly warm,

The voice so musically sweet, —

These, lost to hope, in memory yet

Around the hearts that lov'd thee cling, Shadowing with long and vain regret The too fair promise of thy Spring.

Winthrop Mackworth Praed

THE VICAR

SOME years ago, ere time and taste
Had turn'd our parish topsy-turvy,
When Darnel Park was Darnel Waste,
And roads as little known as scurvy,
The man who lost his way between

St. Mary's Hill and Sandy Thicket
Was always shown across the green,
And guided to the parson's wicket.

Back flew the bolt of lissom lath;

Fair Margaret, in her tidy kirtle, Led the lorn traveller up the path Through clean-clipp'd rows of box and myrtle;

And Don and Sancho, Tramp and Tray, Upon the parlor steps collected, Wagg'd all their tails, and seem'd to say, "Our master knows you; you're expected."

Up rose the reverend Doctor Brown,

Up rose the doctor's "winsome marrow; The lady laid her knitting down,

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Her husband clasp'd his ponderous Bar

row.

Whate'er the stranger's caste or creed,

Pundit or papist, saint or sinner, He found a stable for his steed,

And welcome for himself, and dinner.

If, when he reach'd his journey's end, And warm'd himself in court or college, He had not gain'd an honest friend,

And twenty curious scraps of knowledge; If he departed as he came,

With no new light on love or liquor,Good sooth, the traveller was to blame,

And not the vicarage, nor the vicar.

His talk was like a stream which runs With rapid change from rocks to roses; It slipp'd from politics to puns;

It pass'd from Mahomet to Moses; Beginning with the laws which keep

The planets in their radiant courses,
And ending with some precept deep
For dressing eels or shoeing horses.

He was a shrewd and sound divine,
Of loud dissent the mortal terror;

And when, by dint of
and line,
page
He 'stablish'd truth or startled error,
The Baptist found him far too deep,
The Deist sigh'd with saving sorrow,
And the lean Levite went to sleep

And dream'd of tasting pork to-morrow.

His sermon never said or show'd
That earth is foul, that heaven is gracious,
Without refreshment on the road

From Jerome, or from Athanasius;
And sure a righteous zeal inspir'd
The hand and head that penn'd and
plann'd them,

For all who understood admir'd,

And some who did not understand them.

He wrote too, in a quiet way,

Small treatises, and smaller verses, And sage remarks on chalk and clay, And hints to noble lords and nurses; True histories of last year's ghost;

Lines to a ringlet or a turban ;
And trifles to the Morning Post,
And nothings for Sylvanus Urban.

He did not think all mischief fair,

Although he had a knack of joking ; He did not make himself a bear,

Although he had a taste for smoking; And when religious sects ran mad,

He held, in spite of all his learning, That if a man's belief is bad,

It will not be improv'd by burning.

And he was kind, and lov'd to sit

In the low hut or garnish'd cottage, And praise the farmer's homely wit,

And share the widow's homelier pottage. At his approach complaint grew mild, And when his hand unbarr'd the shutter The clammy lips of fever smil'd

The welcome which they could not utter.

He always had a tale for me

Of Julius Cæsar or of Venus; From him I learn'd the rule of three, Cat's-cradle, leap-frog, and Quæ genus. I used to singe his powder'd wig,

To steal the staff he put such trust in, And make the puppy dance a jig When he began to quote Augustine.

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