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LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, “Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry.” “Now, who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water ?"0, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter. “ And fast before her father's men,

Three days we've fled together ; For, should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather, “His horsemen hard behind us ride,

Should they our steps discover, Then who would cheer my bonny bride.

When they have slain her lover?” Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

“ I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady: “And, by my word ! -the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry ; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry!"

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven, each face

Grew dark as they were speaking. But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.-“Oh! haste thee, haste !" the lady cries,

“ Though tempests round us gather, I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father.”
The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her -
When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather'd o'er her.
And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing :
Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover :
One lovely arm she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover. “Come back ! come back!” he cried in grief,

“Across this stormy water : And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter !-oh! my daughter!” 'Twas vain—the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing :
The waters wild went o'er his child

And he was left lamenting.

YOUNG LOCHINVAR. Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the west ! Through all the wide border his steed was the best ; And save his good broad-sword he weapon had none, He rode all unarm'd, and he rode all alone! So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, There never was knight like the young Lochinvar ! He staid not for brake, and he stopp'd not for stone, He swam the Esk river where ford there was noneBut, ere he alighted at Netherby gate, The bride had consented, the gallant came late ; For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinyar ! So boldly he entered the Netherby hall, 'Mong bride's men, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all! Then spoke the bride's father his hand on his sword, For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word“O come ye in peace or come you in war, Or to dance at our bridal ? young Lord Lochinvar!” " I long woo'd your daughter, my suit you denied : Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide! And now am I come, with this lost love of mine, To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine! There be maidens in Scotland, more lovely by far That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar!" The bride kiss'd the goblet ; the knight took it up, He quaff?d off the wine and he threw down the cup ! She took'd down to blush, and she look'd up to sigh ; With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar“Now tread we a measure !” said the young Lochinvar. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, That never a hall such a galliard did grace!

While her mother did fret, and her father did funie, And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and

plume, And the bride-maidens whisper'd, Twere better by far To have match'd our fair cousin with young Lochinvar! One touch to her hand, and one word in her ear, When they reach'd the hall door and the charger

stood near ; So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung, So light on the saddle before her he sprung! “She is won! we are gone over bank, bush, and scaur ; They'll have fleet steeds that follow !” quoth young

Lochinyar. There was mounting ’mong Græmes of the Netherby

[ran ; Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves,

they rode and they There was racing, and chasing on Cannobie Lea, But the lost bride of Netherby ne'er did they see ! So daring in love, and so dauntless in war, Have you e'er heard of a gallant like young Lochinvar?



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A PARSON once of Methodistic race,
With band new stiffen'd, and with lengthen'd face,
In rostrum mounted, high above the rest,
In long-drawn tones, his friends below address'd ;-
And while he made the chapel roof to roar,
Three drunken sailors reeld in at the door;
His reverence twigg’d them-baited fresh his trap-
“New converts for Old Nick and Co. to nap!"
The poor pew-opener, too, a grave old woman,
Poor! did I say? Oh! how I wrong'd the race-
His honour told me she was rich-ah, rich in grace.

This poor pew-opener though, thinking right,
As soon as Neptune's sons appear'd in sight,

With a preface of three dismal groans compos'd,
Her lips thus open'd, and her mind disclos'd ;
“Ye vicked men, conceiy'd and born in sin,
The gospel gates are open-enter in ;
Come and be saved, ye fallen sons of Adam :"
At which they all roar'd out—“Oh dam'me, madam,
Your jawing tack le's at its proper pitch,
Come out, you d-d old swab-fac'd noisy witch,
Go hang yourself, you squalling cat
What humbug rig is this that now you're at ?

Words like these, utter'd in a sailor's note,
Soon reached the man in black who preach'd by rote ;
And he, tho’a Dissenter, is what I would remark,
Being no novice, beckon'd to his clerk,
Told the amen-man what to say and do-
Immediately he leaves his pew.
Goes to the sailors to do as he was bid ;
Out hauls his 'bacco box, with-“ Dam'me, take a

quid ; What cheer my thundering bucks? how are ye all ? Come in my lads, and give your sins an overhaul!" The sailors roll’d their quids, and turn'd their eyes, And view'd their benefactor with surprise ; Swore he was a hearty fellow_“D-n their souls !" So in they staggering went-cheek by jowl, Found a snug birth,

and stow'd themselves away, To hear what Master Blackey had to say. His reverence preach'd, and groan'd, and preach'd

And, says my story, it was not in vain ;
The plan succeeding which they had concerted,
They went in sinners, and came out converted.

STOP ;--for thy tread is on an Empire's dust!
An earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below!
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust,
Nor column trophied for triumphal show?

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