THE MAID OF THE SEA Is one of the many songs which Moore caused me to cancel, for nothing that I know of, but because they ran counter to his. It is quite natural and reasonable that an author should claim a copyright of a sentiment; but it never struck me that it could be so exclusively his, as that another had not a right to contradict it. This, however, seems to be the case in the London law; for true it is that my songs were cancelled, and the public may now judge on what grounds, by comparing them with Mr Moore's. I have neither forgot nor forgiven it; and I have a great mind to force him to cancel Lalla Rookh for stealing it wholly from the Queen's Wake, which is so apparent in the plan, that every London judge will give it in my favour, although he ventured only on the character of one accomplished bard, and I on seventeen. He had better have let my few trivial songs alone.-It was once set to music by Smith. COME from the sea, Maiden, to me, Maiden of mystery, love, and pain! Wake from thy sleep, Low in the deep, Over thy green waves sport again! Come to this sequester'd spot, love, Death's where thou art, as where thou art not, love; Then come unto me, Maid of the Sea, Rise from the wild and stormy main ; Wake from thy sleep, Calm in the deep, Over thy green waves sport again! Is not the wave Made for the slave, Tyrant's chains, and stern control; Land for the free Spirit like thee ? Thing of delight to a minstrel's soul, Come, with thy song of love and of sadness, O, come unto me, Maid of the Sea, Rise from the wild and surging main; Wake from thy sleep, Calm in the deep, Over thy green waves sport again! GO HOME TO YOUR REST. ANOTHER of the proscribed M'Gregors; but here he is again, and sung to the well-known old air of "The Dandy O." Go home, go home to your rest, young man, Through Morna's grove, A noontide walk is the best, young man; And sighs are heard in the gale, young man: By the dim moonlight, A maiden might chance to bewail, young man! When all the world's awake, young man, But the star of truth, The guide of my youth, Never pointed to midnight wake, young man. Go sleep till rise of the sun, young man, For he's watching the flight Of demons to-night, And may happen to take thee for one, young man! THE HARP OF OSSIAN. I HAVE been sorely blamed by some friends for a sentiment expressed in this song; but I have always felt it painfully that the name of SCOTLAND, the superior nation in every thing but wealth, should be lost, not in Britain, for that is proper, but in England. In all dispatches we are denominated the English, forsooth! We know ourselves, however, that we are not English, nor ever intend to be.-This song is finely set by H. R. Bishop, in one of the Musical Bijous, OLD harp of the Highlands, how long hast thou slumber'd Thy minstrels no more with thy heroes are number'd, Thus sung the last strain of the warrior's soul: |