wave,

325

yon fair tower's my native tower! Nor will it soothe my mourning, Were London palace, tower, and town As fast and brightly burning. It's no my hame-my father's hame, That reddens my cheek sae sairlie

gale

Thy tow'ring spirit now is broke,
Thy neck is bended to the yoke.
What foreign arms could never quell,
By civil rage and rancor fell.

327

The rural pipe and merry lay
No more shall cheer the happy day:
No social scenes of gay delight
No strains but those of sorrow flow,
Beguile the dreary winter night:
And naught be heard but sounds of woe,

down,

Whase hame should be a palace? He row'd him in a Highland plaid, Which cover'd him but sparely, And slept beneath a bush o' broomOh, wae's me for Prince Charlie !"

But now the bird saw some red-coats,
And he shook his wings wi' anger:
"Oh, this is no a land for me-

I'll tarry here nae langer."
A while he hover'd on the wing,
Ere he departed fairly;

But weel I mind the farewell strain,
'Twas "Wae's me for Prince Charlie !"
WILLIAM GLEN.

THE TEARS OF SCOTLAND.
MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn!
Thy sons, for valor long renown'd,
Lie slaughter'd on their native ground;
Thy hospitable roofs no more
Invite the stranger to the door;
In smoky ruins sunk they lie,
The monuments of cruelty.

The wretched owner sees afar

His all become the prey of war; Bethinks him of his babes and wife, Then smites his breast, and curses life. Thy swains are famish'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins shriek in vain ; Thy infants perish on the plain.

What boots it, then, in every clime, Through the wide-spreading waste of

time,

Thy martial glory, crown'd with praise, Still shone with undiminish'd blaze!

Glide nightly o'er the silent plain.

O baneful cause! O fatal morn!
Accursed to ages yet unborn!
The sons against their father stood,
The parent shed his children's blood.
Yet, when the rage of battle ceased,
The victor's soul was not appeased:
The naked and forlorn must feel
Devouring flames and murd'ring steel!

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken wanders o'er the heath;
The bleak wind whistles round her head,
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend;
And, stretch'd beneath th' inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

While the warm blood bedews my veins,
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns,
Resentment of my country's fate
Within my filial breast shall beat;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow:
"Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn.”

TOBIAS SMOLLETT.

Old bent soldiers, crippled veterans, Sigh and hobble, sad, footsore, Jostled by the chariot-horses

Of this woman-Pompadour. Through the levée (poet, marquis, Wistful for the opening door), With a rippling sweep of satin, Sail'd the queenly Pompadour.

Sighs by dozens, as she proudly

Glides, so confident and sure,

He struck alone into a path

That far from crowds and courtiers lay.

berds

In went Madame Pompadour.

Starving abbé, wounded marshal,
Speculator, lean and poor,

Cringe and shrink before the creatures
Of this harlot Pompadour.

"Rose in sunshine! Summer lily !"
Cries a poet at the door,
Squeezed and trampled by the lacqueys
Of the witching Pompadour.

"" 'Bathed in milk and fed on roses!"
Sighs a pimp behind the door,
Jamm'd and bullied by the courtiers
Of this strumpet Pompadour.

(6 Rose of Sharon!" chants an abbé,
Fat and with the voice of four,
Black silk stockings soil'd by varlets
Of this Rahab Pompadour.
"Neck so swan-like,—Dea certe !

Fit for monarchs to adore!"
“Clear the way!" was still the echo,
"For this Venus-Pompadour."
Open-with the jar of thunder

Fly the portals,-clocks strike four; With a burst of drums and trumpets Come the king and Pompadour.

GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY.

LOUIS XV.

THE king with all his kingly train
Had left his Pompadour behind,
And forth he rode in Senart's wood,
The royal beasts of chase to find.
That day by chance the monarch mused,
And, turning suddenly away,

And glad of human sound was he, For, truth to say, he found himself

A weight from which he fain would flee. But that which he would ne'er have guess'd

Before him now most plainly came; The man upon his weary back

A coffin bore of rudest frame.

Why, who art thou?" exclaimed the king,

"And what is that I see thee bear?" "I am a laborer in the wood,

And 'tis a coffin for Pierre.
Close by the royal hunting-lodge
You may have often seen him toil;
But he will never work again,

And I for him must dig the soil."
The laborer ne'er had seen the king,

And this he thought was but a man,
Who made at first a moment's pause,
And then anew his talk began:
"I think I do remember now,—

He had a dark and glancing eye,
And I have seen his slender arm
With wondrous blows the pickaxe ply.