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It was Wallas, the flowre of Scottis Chevalre draive

The Suthroun to deid in the battailis deray. He ruschit on to gloir sempiterne, and to save His King, and his Countre, he rushit to the--grave!



AIR-The Lass o' Arranteenie.

Amid Loch Cat'rine's scenery wild, ,

Is seen my lassie's dwelling,
Where cavern'd rocks on mountains pil'd,

Howl to the sea-breeze swelling:-
She's purer, than the snaw that fa's

On mountain's summit airy;
The sweetest mountain flow'r that blaws,

Is not so fair as Mary,

'Tis sweet when woodland echo rings,

Where purling streams meander,
But sweeter when my Mary sings,

As thro' the glens we wander.
The wild deer on the mountain side,

The fabl’d Elf or Fairy,
Or skiff, that skims the chrystal tide,

Moves not more light than Mary.

From Lowland plains I've wander'd far,

In endless search of pleasure;
Till guided by some friendly star,

I found this lovely treasure.
Altho' my native home has charms,

Amang these hills I'll tarry;
And while life's blood my bosom warms,

I'll love my dearest Mary.



A moment pause, ye British fair,

While pleasure's phantom ye pursue ; 1 Composed by a lady, on seeing in a list of new music,“ The Waterloo


And say, if sprightly dance or air,
Suit with the name of Waterloo ?

Awful was the victory!
Chasten'd should the triumph be:
Midst the laurels she has won,
Britain mourns for many a son.

Veil'd in clouds the morning rose;

Nature seem'd to mourn the day,
Which consign'd before its close,
Thousands to their kindred clay.

How unfit for courtly ball,
Or the giddy festival,
Was the grim and ghastly view,
Ere evening clas'd on Waterloo,

See the Highland warrior rushing,

Firm in danger, on the foe,
Till the life-blood warmly gushing,
Lays the plaided hero low!

His native pipe's accustom'd sound,
'Mid war's infernal concert drown'd,
Cannot soothie his last adieu,
Or wake his sleep on Vaterloo.

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See the bullets through his side,
Answer'd by the spouting tide;
Helmet, horse, and rider too,
Roll on bloody Waterloo.

Shall scenes like these the dance inspire,

Or wake the enliv'ning notes of mirth?
O! shiver'd be the recreant lyre,
That gave the base idea birth!

Other sounds, I ween were there,
Other music rent the air,
Other waltz the warriors knew,
When they clos'd at Waterloo.

Forbear— till time with lenient hand,

Has sooth'd the pang of recent sorrow;
And let the picture distant stand,
The softening hue of years to borrow.

When our race has past away,
Hands unborn may wake the lay,
And give to joy alone the view,
Of Britain's fame at Waterloo.



O heard you the Mermaid of the sea,

When the ship by the rock was sinking; Saw you the Maid with her coral cup,

A health to the sea-nymphs drinking.-The morning was fair, and the ocean calm,

Not a breath awoke the billow,
The foam that play'd in the clefted rock

Was the Mermaid's resting pillow.

As round the cave, where the Mermaid slept,

The vessel light was sailing,
A voice was heard in the gathering storm,

Of Mariners deeply wailing ;
And loud came the deep'ning thunder-peal,

The white waves around were dashing, And the light that illumin’d the pathless way,

Was the gleam of lightning flashing.

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