A neach fo thùrsa, tiormaich suas gach deur,
'Sa ni nach tuig thu creid gu bheil gu t' fheum.
'Ni péin do chrannchur? feuch nach bi fo ghruaim,
'S le Iosa thusa, 's leats' e féin gach uair.

An déigh beagan mhios', a's bhliadhnai' bhos fo bhròn,
A's beagan eile dheuchainean a's dheòir,

'N sin t-àmhgharan, a Chriosduidh, thig gu crìch,
A's ciont' no truaigh' cha bhuair iad thu gu sior.
Tha tiom a' ruith 's dean feum dheth chum do leas,
'S fa chomhair bàis a's breitheanais dean deas;
Air lagh Iehobha feuch nach dean thu tàir,
A shùil ro eudmhor tha ort féin do ghnàth.
Na tuiteadh cadal ort an tìr do nàmh,

'S air àgh na bruadair far bheil uilc a's cràdh ;
Biodh fhiosad fòs am measg gach sgleò a's uaill
Gu bheil gach ni da-rireadh an taobh thall do'n uaigh.
'Bheil duibhr' a's solus iomchuidh dhuinn a bhos?
Ri là tha 'n oidhch' cho feumail dhuinn gu clos;
Mar sin tha tinneas, iarguin agus péin,

Cho iomchuidh dhuinn ri slàinte bhos fo'n ghréin. Ni's mò na bi ri monbhor, anaim bhochd, 'Tha 'giùlan àmhghair, cràidh, a's iomadh lot, Nis faic na beannachdan a's leat gu beachd, Araon 's an àm so 's anns an àm ri teachd; Earb thus' á Dia, 's do dhòchas na biodh meat', A reir do latha tha e 'gealltuinn neart : 'S e féin do lighiche, 's do thaice threun, A léighseas t'euslaintean 's do chreuchdan breun. 'S e 'n Tighearn Dia t'fhear-iùil, 's do charaid fòs, Tròcair a's maitheanas théid leat ri d' bheò : A ghràdh 'tha siorruidh 's e do ghrian 's do sgiath, 'S a t'uile theanndachd fuadaichidh e t'fhiamh; Mar sholus soillseach bidh do d' cheum gach uair, 'S do chuibhrionn aoibhneach e san t-siorr'achd bhuan.

THE BATTLE OF HOHENLINDEN.*

On Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow;
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden show'd another sight,
When the drum beat at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet-sound array'd,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious each charger neigh'd,
To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills, with thunder riven;
Then rush'd the steed to battle driven;
And, volleying like the bolts of heaven,
Far flash'd the red artillery.

But redder still these fires shall glow,
On Linden's hills of purpled snow;
And bloodier still shall be the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly,

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-cloud rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout 'mid their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens: On, ye brave!
Who rush to glory or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave!

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre!

It was near Hohenlinden, a village of Bavaria, on the 3rd of December, 1800, that one of the greatest battles ever fought took place, between the French and Bavarian army on the one side, and the Austrians on the other. The former, under the general

BLAR HOHENLINNDINN.

Air Linndinn 'n uair a luidh a' ghrian,
Bha 'n t-òg-shneachd geal gun fhuil air sliabh;
'S gu dorcha, ceò-reoteach, gu'n d' thriall
Sruth Iosair 'sìos gu cabhagach.

Ach chunnaig Linndinn sealladh nuadh,-
Air meadhon oidhch' thog druma fuaim,
"Toirt òrdugh teinntean bàis chur suas
A lasadh luath 'na h-achannaibh.

Le solus lias 's gàir thromb 'na chluais,
Gach marcaich' spion a lann á truaill,
'S b' àrd sitrich steud 'n an leum 'dol suas,
'N uair 'chualas fuaim na sabaide.

Gu'n d' chrith na cnuic gu'm bonn le spàirn;
Air mhire ruith gach each gu h-àr,
'S mar thorruinn speur a's éitidh ràn
Gu'n cluinnte pràis ri langanaich.

Ach 's braise 'lasas teinntean buan
Air sléibhtibh Linndinn 's deirge snuadh,
'S le gaorr nan àr, gu fuileach, ruadh
Sruth Iosair gluaisidh cabhagach.
'Se'n là e; 's cha nochd grian an àigh
Ach gann a gnùis troi' chiar-cheò 'bhàis,
'S am Frangach bras 's an t-Ungach dàn'
Fo 'sgàil ri gàir le dannarachd.

Tha 'n cath 'fàs fuileach: sios gach treun,
A's coisinn buaidh, no gluais gu h-eug!
A Mhùinich sgaoil ri crann gach bréid!

'S greas ort gu streup le d' ghaisearachd!

Cha till o'n chòmhail mòran slàn,
Do'n chorr ni'n sneachda léine-bhàis,
'S gach fòid de'n fhonn a ta fo'n sàil

Mar uaigh do shàr gu'n treachailear.

ship of Moreau, gained a complete victory over the latter, under Archduke John. Besides killed and wounded, the Austrians lost 10,000 prisoners, and 100 pieces of canon.

VERSES TO MR. E. LLHUYD.*

When first from Spain the grey Gael hither came,
With the Milesian race, a dauntless stock;

Their hardy blades were not in tales more famed
Than were their lays and lore, through every land.
Once this fair seed had spread out far and near,
Then honour meet and due the Gaelic gained:
That copious, tasteful, sweet, expressive tongue,—
That polished, sounding, smooth, well-ordered speech.

* When Mr. Llhuyd published his "Archæologia Britannia,' in 1704, so pleased were the Highlanders with the interest with which he invested their language, that many of them addressed complimentary verses to him, expressive of their appreciation of his work. In 1707 a second edition was issued, wherein some of these verses were given. The above is a translation, by the late Rev. T. Pattison, of what Mr John Maclean, minister of the parish of Killninian, Island of Mull composed on that occasion. The verses are interesting as showing the enthusiasm of a Highland clergyman on seeing his language duly honoured by such an eminent man as Mr Llhuyd was. The following pieces, although not so lengthy, show that Mr Maclean was not the only Highlander who complimented Mr. Llhuyd :—

Bho Raibeart Caimbeul, Fear Faraiste (Sgìreachd)__ MhicChailein, an Còmhal, do'n uasal òirdheirc, Maighstir Edward Lhuid, Fear-coimhead Tigh-nan-seud 'an Oil-thigh Ath-andaimh an Sasunn, Ughdar an Fhoclair Ghaoidheilg, Fàilte!

Ceillfair soc is cantair ceòl

An rioghachd Eirinn gach aon lô ;
'S cuirear adhbha ciùil faoi ghleus
An criochaibh aoibhin na h-Albann.

An t-aobhar fa'n deiream sud,
Cànamhuin òirdheirc nan tìr ud,
Air bhi dhi o shean am bruid

A sgaoileadh a nis o 'cuibhreach.
Le cainnt a dhruidear gach sìth,
Bheirear aoradh do'n Ard-righ:
Neach, d'a fheabhas, 's fann a chor,

'S cànanmhuin a bhi d'a easbhuidh.

Do bhrosnuich sud Maighstir Leòd
Am briathran oileanta deas-ghlòir,
Freumh do'n aiteal chruadhach ghrinn,

Do shiol buadhach nam breithneach.

RANNAN DO MHAIGHSTIR E. LUID.

Air teachd o'n Spàinn do shliochd a' Ghàidheil ghlais,
'S do shliochd nam Mìlidh, 'n fhine nach bu tais;
Bu mhòr an sgleò 's gach fòd air cruas an lann,
Air fil'eachd fòs 's air fòghlum nach bu ghann.
'N uair dh'fhàs am pòr ud mòr a bhos a's thall
Bha meas a's prìs de'n Ghàilig anns gach ball—
An Teanga lìonmhor, bhrìghmhor, bhlasda, bhinn,
'S a' Chànain thartrach, lìobhta, ghasda, ghrinn.

Oid' an iùil an sàs na fhil'eachd,
An àrd stuidear na sgoileachd,
"Ta chaidre tuinnidh a's tàimh
Aig Ath-an-daimh an Sasunn.
Sgàile mòrachd 's air treun ghniomh
An droing 'chuir Eirinn fo thròm chìs,
Aon do'n chinneadh cheud-chathach ud
'G a togail a nis gu mòr-chliù.

An gniomh do roghnuich am mac ud
Teisteas air meud a mheamna,
Dh'fhàg maireanta buan a bhladh

Alloill am flaitheas Ghàidheal.

Nior thaisteil talamh do'm fhios
Ughdar coimeaste ris:

Saoi do bheothaich air ais
Oghuim céir na Gàilig.

Tiomnadh sgriobhte dha mar dhuais
A chaoidh gu'm bi alladh a' fàs,
Eigneachd a chéille le'n chnuas

Gu là Luan an déigh a bhàis.

Bho Sheumas Mac-Mhuir', Sagart Chill. Dalltan, 'an Ile.

'S e do bheatha, 'Fhoclair chaoimh,

Do chriochaibh àrd Chlanna Gàidheal;

Gu innis fòs nan Còig-Còigeamh

'S i do bheatha g'an uibhir.

Gheibh thu fàilt' an criochaibh Ghàidheal,
'S i do bheatha 'n Innse-gall;

Ni gach Triath riutsa comunn,
Gheibh thu moladh an Eirinn thall.

Do dhùisgeadh riut as an uaigh

A' chànain chruaidh a bha fo smal;