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On Albyn's rocks the haughty tow'r
Told far and wide her giant pow'r,
Or hung in rude defying low'r,

To fix a nation's slavery.
Where now the hosts that sparkling gleam'd,
The banner where, that gaily stream’d?
And where the tower, that proudly seem'd

To look to heaven in rivalry.

Low sleep the mighty men of yore
Beneath the cairnies on our shore ;
The flickering banner waves no more

O'er pride of Roman chivalry.
And where the lofty turrets rose
Of Caledonia's scowling foes,
No stone is left-the thistle grows

Where stood their proud security.

Land of the brave ! oh, could it be,
That thou should brook Rome's tyranny !
And must a soil that aye was free,

Crouch to a servile enemy !
No ! she may spread her fierce control
Far as the waves of ocean roll,
But ne'er shall crush thy lion sonl -

Thy freedom is eternity.



Light springs the pang, light passes by,
That melts itself in tears,
The stricken spirit that can sigh,
No mortal sorrow bears ;
When comes the last, true agony,
The heart nor heaves, nor melts the eye.

And mine has come!-no more I weep,
No more the heart's pale slave;
My sleep must be the unwaking sleep,
My bed must be the grave;
Thro' my wild brain no longer move,
Or hope, or fear, or hate, or love.

* From the Italian of Pulci.



O check, my love, the falling tear

Which dims thy bonny e'e,
The world may frown, and friends prove false,

But I'll be true to thee.

O check, my love, the rising sigh,

Which gently swells thy heart,
Hope whispers soon we'll meet again,

And never, never part.

When far awa', that falling tear,

Shall aft remember'd be,
The rising sigh which swells thy heart,

Shall ne'er be lost on me.

Then check, my love, the falling tear,

Which dims thy bonny e'e,
The world may frown, and friends prove false,

But I'll be true to thee.



Deep in love, yes 'tis love,

Wakes the fond, the ceaseless sigh, Oh ! this love will be my death,

Sweetest death, of love to die !

Heaven knows I little thought

That from such eyes such ills could flow, But who could gaze as I have gaz'd, And not feel, as I feel now.

Deep in love, dc.

I was young, and she was fair,

I was fond and oft she sung Of love, while I, oh simple boy ! O’er song and songstress raptur'd hung.

Deep in love, &c.

I was sad, and then she sigh’d,

I grew timid, then she smiled,
Sued for pity, she gave more,
And thus my youthful heart beguiled.

Deep in love, dc.

Sleeping, waking, 'tis the same,

My dream, my thought will only give
The form of her for whom I die,
Of her for whom alone I'd live.

Deep in love, dc.




Let every valiant son of Gaul
Sing Roland's deeds, her greatest glory,
Whose name will stoutest foes appal,
And feuts inspire for future story.

Roland. in childhood, had no fears,

Was full of tricks, nor knew a letter,
Which, though it cost his mother tears,

His father cry'd, “So much the better ;

* This admirable song in praise of Roland was translated from the French of the Marquis de Paulmy, by Dr. Burnoy, and inserted in the second volume of his History of Music.

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