Scaling the eagle's nest,

Wounding the raven's breast,

Skimming the mountain's crest,
Gladsome and light.

Then rose a bolder game,—

Young Charlie Stuart came,

Cameron, that loyal name,

Foremost must be!

Hard then our warrior meed,
Glorious our warrior deed,

Till we were doom'd to bleed

By treachery!

Then did the red blood stream,

Then was the broadsword's gleam

Quench'd; in fair freedom's beam

No more to shine!

Then was the morning's brow
Red with the fiery glow;

Fell hall and hamlet low,

All that were mine.

Far in a hostile land,

Stretch'd on a foreign strand,

Oft has the tear-drop bland

Scorch'd as it fell.

Once was I spurn'd from thee, Long have I mourn'd for thee,

Now I'm return'd to thee,

Hill of Lochiel!

THE FLOWERS OF SCOTLAND

WAS written to the popular air of "The Blue Bells of Scotland," at the request of a most beautiful young lady, who sung it particularly well. But several years afterwards I heard her still singing the old ridiculous words, which really, like the song of the whilly-whawp," is ane shame till heirre." I never thought her so bonny afterwards; but neither she was.

WHAT are the flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel ?

The lovely flowers of Scotland,

All others that excel !

The thistle's purple bonnet,

And bonny heather bell,
O they're the flowers of Scotland
All others that excel!

Though England eyes her roses,
With pride she'll ne'er forego,

The rose has oft been trodden

By foot of haughty foe;

But the thistle in her bonnet blue,

Still nods outow'r the fell,

And dares the proudest foeman
To tread the heather bell.

For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland,
Alack and well-a-day!

For ilka hand is free to pu'

An' steal the gem away:

But the thistle in her bonnet blue
Still bobs aboon them a';

At her the bravest darena blink,
Or gie his mou a thraw.

Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland,
The emblems o' the free,

Their guardians for a thousand years,
Their guardians still we'll be.

A foe had better brave the deil

Within his reeky cell,

Than our thistle's purple bonnet,
Or bonny heather bell.

THE BONNY LASS OF DELORAINE

WAS written on one of the flowers of the Forest nearly thirty years ago. There were two very lovely sisters of the family, and I never said to any one which was meant, hoping that each would take the compliment to herself in good part. But now, when both of them have children ready either to make songs, or have songs made of them, I must confess it was Elizabeth-Mrs W. B. Shaw.-It has never been set to music.

STILL must my pipe lie idle by,

And worldly cares my mind annoy?

Again its softest notes I'll try,

So dear a theme can never cloy.

Last time my mountain harp I strung,
'Twas she inspired the simple strain,
That lovely flower so sweet and young,
The bonny lass of Deloraine.

K