As free from life, as if he ne'er had liv'd. Where are his friends, and where his old acquaint ance, Who borrow'd from his strength, when, in the yoke, They lie, and heed him not ;-little thinking, Retire! Yet, first proclaim this sacred truth- Falls to the earth, 'tis Heav'n that gives the blow! CULLODEN, OR LOCHIEL'S FAREWELL. GRIEVE. CULLODEN, on thy swarthy brow Spring no wild flow'rs nor verdure fair : Then fled, and curs'd thee evermore. From Beauly's wild and woodland glens, Q How fierce the plaided Highland clans When wint'ry winds begin to blow! Where now thy honours, brave Lochiel ! When skulking like the mountain roe! To his blue hills that rose in view, The weight of Cameron's deadly brand. "Land of proud hearts, and mountains grey ! Where Fingal fought, and Ossian sung! Mourn dark Culloden's fateful day, That from thy chiefs the laurel wrung. "Shades of the mighty and the brave, Who, faithful to your Stuart, fell; No trophies mark your common grave, A VOICE FROM THE HIGHLANDS. Written on occasion of his Majesty King George IV''s Visit to Scotland, in August 1822. ANONYMOUS. THE peak of yon mountain is shining in light, Like the beacon which summon'd our fathers to fight; Each chief from the Highlands has follow'd the blaze, At the call of his Monarch his standard to raise. The sleep of the heathcock is peaceful and still, For the pibroch has summon'd the Sons of the Hill; We have left the red deer to be lord of the glen, And by tens and by fifties have muster'd our men. Yet the dirk and the broadsword shall serve but to show, That to welcome a foeman we had not been slow; We haste where yon vessel approaches the land, But it is not for battle we press to the strand. Our Chieftains will crowd round the greatest of all, No Master but he, for his frown or his smiles, For him and no other Glengarry would stay They are few to whom Campbell or Gordon would yield Unbidden precedence in hall or in field. When He musters his kinsmen, the best shall not fail His standard to bow, and his bonnet to vail; Then sound me that pibroch the shrillest and best, Which woke, in Arroyos, the French from their rest; Then loud be your shout, as on Maida it rose O'er the clash of your claymores, your bayonets' close. Tho' calm of demeanour, our spirits can glow With the shout which we raise for our Chieftain and King. HUMOROUS PIECES. THE JEWESS AND HER SON. DR WOLCOT. POOR Mistress Levi had a luckless son, High from the gall'ry, ere the play begun, In short, he broke his pretty Hebrew neck; The mother was distracted, raving, wild; Shriek'd, tore her hair, embrac'd, and kiss'd her child; Afflicted ev'ry heart with grief around. Soon as the show'r of tears was somewhat past, She cast about her eyes in thought profound; Sher, I muss haf de shilling back, you know, THE THREE BLACK CROWS. DR BYROM. Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand, |