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And now I know she from Aberfraw's tower
Watcheth these specks upon the moonlight sea,
And weeps for my departure, and for me
Sends

up
her

prayers to Heaven, nor thinks that now I must make mine to man in her behalf !”

Quoth Rodri: “ Rest assured for her. I swear,
By our dead mother, so to deal with her
As thou thyself wouldst dictate, as herself
Shall wish."

The tears fell fast from Madoc's eyes. “O Britain ! 0 my country!” he exclaimed; “Forever thus by civil strife convulsed, Thy children's blood flowing to satisfy Thy children's rage, how wilt thou still support The struggle with the Saxon?

Rodri cried : “Our strife shall not be long; Mona will rise With joy to welcome me, her rightful lord; And woe be to the King who rules by fear, When danger comes against him!”

“ Fear not thou For Britain !” quoth Llewelyn ; “ for not yet The country of our fathers shall resign Her name among the nations. Though her Sun Slope from his eminence, the voice of man May yet arrest him on his downward way. My dreams by day, my visions in the night, Are of her welfare. I shall mount the throneYes, Madoc! and the Bard of years to come, Who harps of Arthur's and of Owen's deeds, Shall with the worthies of his country rank Llewelyn's name. Dear uncle, fare thee well ! And I almost could wish I had been born Of humbler lot, that I might follow thee, Companion of this noble enterprise.

Think of Llewelyn often, who will oft
Remember thee in love !"

For the last time
He pressed his uncle's hand, and Rodri gave
The last farewell; then went the twain their way.
So over ocean, through the moonlight waves,
Prince Madoc sailed with all his company.
No nobler crew filled that heroic bark
Which bore the first adventurers of the deep
To seek the Golden Fleece on barbarous shores ;
Nor richlier fraught did that illustrious fleet
Home to the Happy Island hold its way,
When Amadis, with his prime chivalry-
He of all chivalry himself the flower-
Came from the rescue, proud of Roman spoils,
And Oriana, freed from Roman thrall.

TAM O'SHANTER.

BY ROBERT BURNS.

WHEN chapman billies 1 leave the street,
And drouthy ? neebors neebors meet,
As market days are wearin' late,
An' folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And gettin' fou 4 and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

1 Chapman billies-peddling fellows.

4 Boosy.

: Ale.

· Thirsty.
6 Gates.

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses
For honest men and bonny lasses).
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder 1 wi' the miller
Thou sat as lang as thou hadst siller ;
That every naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, even on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirten Jean till Monday.
She prophesied that, late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

2

4

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars: me greet
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthened, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises !

But to our tale :- Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming? swats that drank divinely;
And at his elbow Souter' Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither-
They had been fou for weeks thegither!

i Grist.
• Fireplace.

Money

8 Makes. 7 Foaming.

4 Weep.
8 Beer.

6 Uncommonly. • Cobbler.

The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter,
And ay the ale was growing better;
The landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;
The Souter tauld his queerest stories,
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus.
The storm without might rair and rustle-
Tam didna mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi' pleasure ;
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a' the ills o’ life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snowfall in the river,
A moment white—then melts forever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form,
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide ;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride,
That hour, o' night's black arch the keystane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast,
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd;
That night, a child might understand
The deil had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
(A better never lifted leg),
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire ;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glowering round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares.
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was 'cross the foord,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoord,
And past the birks and meikle stane
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neckbane:
And through the whins, and by the cairn
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the weil,
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel.
Before him Doon pours a' his floods;
The doubling storm roars through the woods;
The lightnings flash frae pole to pole;
Near and more near the thunders roll ;
When, glimmering through the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Through ilka bore 2 the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil,
Wi' usquebae,4 we'll face the devil !-
The swat sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he cared na deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonishid,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,

i Smothered.

FOLK-LORE

- Whisky.

Crevice.
10

s Cheap ale.

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