'O mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie,

I have ridden horse baith wild and wood;
But a rougher beast than Red Rowan,
I ween my legs have ne'er bestrode.

'And mony a time,' quo' Kinmont Willie, 'I've pricked a horse out oure the furs; But since the day I backed a steed,

I never wore sic cumbrous spurs !'

We scarce had won the Staneshaw-bank,
When a' the Carlisle bells were rung,
And a thousand men, in horse and foot,
Cam' wi' the keen Lord Scroope along.

Buccleuch has turned to Eden water,

Even where it flow'd frae bank to brim, And he has plunged in wi' a' his band, And safely swam them thro' the stream.

He turned him on the other side,

And at Lord Scroope his glove flung he― 'If ye like na my visit in merry England, In fair Scotland come visit me!'

All sore astonished stood Lord Scroope,
He stood as still as rock of stane;
He scarcely dared to trew his eyes,
When thro' the water they had gane.

'He is either himsell a devil frae hell,
Or else his mother a witch maun be;
I wadna have ridden that wan water
For a' the gowd in Christentie.'

MINSTRELSY OF THE SCOTTISH BORder.

THE LAST MAN

ALL worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The Sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its Immortality!

I saw a vision in my sleep,

That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulph of Time!

I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation's death behold,
As Adam saw her prime!

The Sun's eye had a sickly glare,
The Earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!

Some had expired in fight,—the brands
Still rested in their bony hands;

In plague and famine some!
Earth's cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb!

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood
With dauntless words and high,

That shook the sere leaves from the wood
As if a storm passed by,

Saying, 'We are twins in death, proud Sun! Thy face is cold, thy race is run,

'Tis Mercy bids thee go;

For thou ten thousand thousand years

Hast seen the tide of human tears,

That shall no longer flow.

'What though beneath thee man put forth

His pomp, his pride, his skill;

And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;-

Yet mourn I not thy parted sway,
Thou dim discrownèd king of day:
For all those trophied arts

And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Heal'd not a passion or a pang

Entail'd on human hearts.

Go, let oblivion's curtain fall

Upon the stage of men,

Nor with thy rising beams recall

Life's tragedy again :

Its piteous pageants bring not back,
Nor waken flesh, upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;

Stretch'd in disease's shapes abhorr'd,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe.

'E'en I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.

The eclipse of Nature spreads my pall,—
The majesty of Darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost!

'This spirit shall return to Him
That gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robb'd the grave of Victory,-

And took the sting from Death!

S

Go, Sun, while Mercy holds me up
On Nature's awful waste

To drink this last and bitter cup

Of grief that man shall taste

Go, tell the night that hides thy face,
Thou saw'st the last of Adam's race,

On Earth's sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his Immortality,

Or shake his trust in God!'

CAMPBELL.

IVRY

A SONG OF THE HUGUENOTS

Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are!
And glory to our Sovereign Liege, King Henry of Navarre !
Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance,

Through thy corn-fields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of
France!

And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy,

For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy Hurrah! Hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! Hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.

Oh! how our hearts were beating, when, at the dawn of day,
We saw the army of the League drawn out in long array;
With all its priest-led citizens, and all its rebel peers,
And Appenzel's stout infantry, and Egmont's Flemish spears.
There rode the brood of false Lorraine, the curses of our land;
And dark Mayenne was in the midst, a truncheon in his hand:
And, as we looked on them, we thought of Seine's empurpled

flood,

And good Coligni's hoary hair all dabbled with his blood;

And we cried unto the living God, who rules the fate of war,
To fight for His own holy name, and Henry of Navarre.

The King is come to marshal us, in all his armour drest,
And he has bound a snow-white plume upon his gallant crest.
He looked upon his people, and a tear was in his eye;

He looked upon the traitors, and his glance was stern and high. Right graciously he smiled on us, as rolled from wing to wing, Down all our line, a deafening shout, 'God save our Lord the King!"

'And if my standard-bearer fall, as fall full well he may, For never saw I promise yet of such a bloody fray,

Press where ye see my white plume shine, amidst the ranks of war, And be your oriflamme to-day the helmet of Navarre.'

Hurrah! the foes are moving. Hark to the mingled din,
Of fife, and steed, and trump, and drum, and roaring culverin.
The fiery Duke is pricking fast across Saint André's plain,
With all the hireling chivalry of Guelders and Almayne.
Now by the lips of those ye love, fair gentlemen of France,
Charge for the golden lilies, upon them with the lance.

A thousand spurs are striking deep, a thousand spears in rest,
A thousand knights are pressing close behind the snow-white crest;
And in they burst, and on they rushed, while like a guiding star,
Amidst the thickest carnage blazed the helmet of Navarre.

Now, God be praised, the day is ours. Mayenne hath turned his rein.

D'Aumale hath cried for quarter. The Flemish count is slain.
Their ranks are breaking like thin clouds before a Biscay gale;
The field is heaped with bleeding steeds, and flags, and cloven mail.
And then we thought on vengeance, and, all along our van,
'Remember St. Bartholomew,' was passed from man to man.
But out spake gentle Henry, 'No Frenchman is my foe:
Down, down with every foreigner, but let your brethren go.'
Oh! was there ever such a knight in friendship or in war,
As our Sovereign Lord, King Henry, the soldier of Navarre ?

Right well fought all the Frenchmen who fought for France to-day;
And many a lordly banner God gave them for a prey.

But we of the religion have borne us best in fight;

And the good Lord of Rosny has ta'en the cornet white.
Our own true Maximilian the cornet white hath ta'en,

The cornet white with crosses black, the flag of false Lorraine.