BOAT SONG.

Hail to the chief who in triumph advances,
Honoured and blessed by the ever-green pine!
Long may the tree in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,
Earth lend it sap anew,

Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to glow,
While every highland glen
Sends our shout back agen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain,
Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
When the whirl-wind has stripped every leaf on the

mountain,

The more shall Clan Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock,

Proof to the tempest's shock,

Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow:

Menteith and Bredalbane, then,
Echo his praise agen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Banochar's groans to our slogan replied, Glen Luss and Ross-dhu they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid

Long shall lament our raid,

Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with wo;
Lennox and Leven-glen

Shake when they hear agen,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands!

Stretch to your oars, for the ever-green pine! O! that the rose-bud that graces yon islands, Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem,

Honoured and blessed in their shadow might grow!

Loud should Clan-Alpine then
Ring from her deepest glen,

"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

THE CASTLE OF INDOLENCE.

The castle hight of indolence
And its false luxury;

Where for a little time, alas!
We liv'd right jollily.

I.

O MORTAL MAN, who livest here by toil! Do not complain of this thy hard estate; That like an emmet thou must ever moil, Is a sad sentence of an ancient date; And, certes, there is for it reason great; For, tho' sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, Withouten that would come an heavier bale, Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale.

II.

In lowly dale, fast by a river's side,
With woody hill o'er hill encompass'd round,
A most enchanting wizard did abide,

Than whom a fiend more fell is no where found.

It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground; And there a season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half imbrown'd, A listless climate made, where sooth to say, No living wight could work, ne cared even for play.

III.

Was naught around but images of rest: Sleep soothing groves, and quiet lawns between; And flowery beds that slumbrous influence kest, From poppies breath'd; and beds of pleasant green, Where never yet was creeping creature seen. Meantime unnumber'd glittering streamlets play'd, And hurled every where their waters sheen; That, as they bicker'd through the sunny glade, Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made.

IV.

Join'd to the prattle of the purling rills,
Were heard the lowing herds along the vale,
And flocks loud bleating from the distant hills,
And vacant shepherds piping in the dale:
And now and then sweet Philomel would wail,
Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep,
That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale;
And still a coil the grasshopper did keep;
Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep.

V.

Full in the passage of the vale above,
A sable, silent, solemn forest stood;

Where nought but shadowy forms were seen to move,

As Idless fancied in her dreaming mood;

And up the hills, on either side, a wood

Of blackening pines, aye waving to and fro,
Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood;

And where this valley winded out below,

The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard to

flow.

VI.

A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was,
Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye;

And of gay castles in the clouds that pass,
For ever flushing round a summer sky:
There eke the soft delights, that witchingly
Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast,
And the calm pleasures always hover'd nigh;
But whate'er smack'd of noyance, or unrest,
Was far, far off expell'd from this delicious nest.

VII.

The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, Where Indolence, (for so the wizard hight) Close hid his castle mid embowering trees, That half shut out the beams of Phœbus bright, And made a kind of checker'd day and night; Meanwhile, unceasing at the massy gate, Beneath a spacious palm, the wicked wight Was plac'd; and to his lute, of cruel fate, And labour harsh, complain'd, lamenting man's estate.