Which he scarce could credit, having heard

The con. but not the pro.!

Oh! we ne'er shall see the like of Captain
Paton no mo`e!

Or when the candles were brought forth,
And the night was fairly setting in,
He would tell some fine old stories

About Minden field or Dettingen;
How he fought with a French major,
And despatch'd him at a blow,
While his blood ran out like water

On the soft grass below!

Oh! we ne'er shall hear the like from Captain Paton no mo'e!

But at last the captain sickened,

And grew worse from day to day, And all miss'd him in the coffee-room, From which now he staid away; On Sabbaths, too, the Wynd Kirk Made a melancholy show,

All for wanting of the presence

Of our venerable beau!

Oh! the broadswords of old Scotland! And oh! the old Scottish broadswords.

Old Sir Ralph Abercromby, the good and the brave

Let him flee from our board, let him sleep with the slave,

Whose libation comes slow while we honour his grave.

Oh! the broadswords, &c.

Tho' he died not like him amid victory's roar, Though disaster and gloom wove his shroud on the shore;

Not the less we remember the spirit of Moore. Oh! the broadswords, &c.

Yea a place with the fallen the living shall claim,

We'll entwine in one wreath every glorious

name,

The Gordon, the Ramsay, the Hope, and the Graham.

All the broadswords, &c.

Paton no mo'e!

And in spite of all that Cleghorn

And Corkindale could do,

It was plain from twenty symptoms
That death was in his view;

So the captain made his test'ment,
And submitted to his foe,

And we laid him by the Ram's-horn Kirk"Tis the way we all must go!

of the Forth

Count the stars in the clear cloudless heaven

of the north;

Then go blazon their numbers, their names, and their worth.

All the broadswords, &c.

The highest in splendour, the humblest in place,

Stand united in glory, as kindred in race;

Paton no mo`e!

Join all in chorus, jolly boys,

And let punch and tears be shed, For this prince of good old fellows

That, alack-a-day! is dead;

For this prince of worthy fellows-
And a pretty man also -
That has left the Saltmarket

In sorrow, grief, and woe!

For it ne'er shall see the like of Captain Paton no mo'e!

BROADSWORDS OF SCOTLAND.

Now there's peace on the shore, now there's calm on the sea,

Fill a glass to the heroes whose swords kept us free,

Right descendants of Wallace, Montrose, and Dundee.

Oh! the broadswords, &c.

upon their wailing,

sound is like no earthly sound-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

and wide the doors they throw; Dejectedly they enter, and mournfully they go; In gloomy lines they mustering stand, beneath the hollow porch,

Each horseman grasping in his hand a black and flaming torch;

Wet is each eye as they go by, and all around is wailing,

For all have heard the misery-"Alas! alas for Celin!"

Him, yesterday, a Moor did slay, of Bencerraje's blood,

purple pall,

The flower of all Grenada's youth, the loveliest

of them all;

His dark, dark eyes are closed, his rosy lip is pale,

The crust of blood lies black and dim upon his burnished mail;

peculiar beauties of this literature in our English dress;" and another critic remarks, "Fine spirit-stirring strain in general, translated and transfused into our tongue with admirable felicity."-ED.

VOL. II.-K

comest unbid to me;

But what from traitors' blood should spring save traitors like to thee?

His sire, lords, had a traitor's heart; perchance our champion brave

May think it were a pious part to share Don Pancho's grave."

1 These Spanish ballads are known to our public, but generally with inconceivable advantage, by the very fine and animated translations of Mr. Lockhart. -Henry Hallam.

king, Condé, or grandee!"

Then to his mouth the horn he drew (it hung below his cloak).

His ten true men the signal knew, and through the ring they broke:

With helm on head, and blade in hand, the knights the circle brake,

land did advance,

By secret traitors hired and led, to make us slaves of France;

The life of King Alphonso I saved at Roncesval

Your words, lord king, are recompense abundant for it all.

"Your horse was down--your hope was flown; I saw the falchion shine,

That soon had drunk your royal blood, had I not ventured mine;

But memory soon of service done deserteth the ingrate,

And ye've thank'd the son for life and crown

by the father's bloody fate.

false king to quake.

"Ha! Bernard," quoth Alphonso, "what means this warlike guise?

Ye know full well I jested-ye know your worth I prize."

But Bernard turn'd upon his heel, and smiling, pass'd away;

Long rued Alphonso and his realm the jesting of that day.

ZARA'S EAR-RINGS.

(FROM THE SPANISH.1)

Sancho free;

But curse upon your paltering breath, the light he ne'er did see

He died in dungeon cold and dim, by Alphonso's base decree,

And visage blind, and stiffen'd limb, were all they gave to me.

"The king that swerveth from his word hath stain'd his purple black;

No Spanish lord will draw the sword behind a liar's back:

But noble vengeance shall be mine, an open

hate I'll show

The king bath injured Carpio's line, and Bernard is his foe.'

"Seize-seize him!" loud the king doth scream-"There are a thousand hereLet his foul blood this instant stream-What! catiffs, do ye fear?

Seize-seize the traitor!"-But not one to move a finger dareth,

Bernardo standeth by the throne, and calm his sword he bareth.

He drew the falchion from the sheath, and held it up on high,

And all the hall was still as death:-Cries Bernard, "Here am I;

And here is the sword that owns no lord, excepting Heaven and me

into the well,

From ear to ear, from eye to glistening eye,

Leap the glad tidings, and the glance of glee; Perish the hopeless breast that beats not high At thought beneath his roof that guest to sce!

What princely stranger comes?-what exiled lord

From the far East to Scotia's strand returns,
To stir with joy the towers of Abbotsford,
And "wake the minstrel's soul?"-The boy
of Burns.

O, sacred Genius! blessing on the chains,
Wherein thy sympathy can minds entwine!
Beyond the conscious glow of kindred veins,
A power, a spirit, and a charm are thine.

Thine offspring share them. Thou hast trod the land

It breathes of thee-and men, through rising

tears,

Behold the image of thy manhood stand,

More noble than a galaxy of peers.

And he his father's bones had quaked, I ween, But that with holier pride his heart-strings bound,

Than if his host had king or kaiser been,

And star and cross on every bosom round.

High strains were pour'd of many a Border

spear,

While gentle fingers swept a throbbing shell; A manly voice, in manly notes and clear,

Of lowly love's deep bliss responded well. The children sang the ballads of their sires: Serene among them sat the hoary knight;

And, if dead bards have ears for earthly lyres,

The Peasant's shade was near, and drank delight.

As through the woods we took our homeward

way,

Fair shone the moon last night on Eildon Hill;

Soft rippled Tweed's broad wave beneath her ray,

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing;

And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,

And the tall, tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air:Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!

"Arise, arise, Xarifa. I see Andalla's face— He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace:

Through all the land of Xeres, and banks of Guadalquivir,

Rode bridegroom forth so brave as he, so brave and lovely never!

Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow, of purple

mixed with white,

I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night:

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town!

"What aileth thee, Xarifa!-what makes thine eyes look down?

rill.

Heaven send the guardian genius of the vale Health yet, and strength, and length of honoured days,

To cheer the world with many a gallant tale, And hear his children's children chant his lays.

Through seas unruffled may the vessel glide, That bears her poet far from Melrose' glen! And may his pulse be steadfast as our pride, When happy breezes waft him back again!

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA.
(FROM THE SPANISH.1)

"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa! lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with

all the town!

1 These translations derive, as I have said, not a little of their excellence from Mr. Lockhart being himself a poet-of fine genius, clear in his conceptions and

with all the town?