Scaling the eagle's nest, Wounding the raven's breast, Skimming the mountain's crest, Then rose a bolder game,— Young Charlie Stuart came, Cameron, that loyal name, Foremost must be! Hard then our warrior meed, 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 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, Though England eyes her roses, 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 For the wee bit leaf o' Ireland, For ilka hand is free to pu' An' steal the gem away: But the thistle in her bonnet blue At her the bravest darena blink, Up wi' the flowers o' Scotland, Their guardians for a thousand years, A foe had better brave the deil Within his reeky cell, Than our thistle's purple bonnet, 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, K |