But no Bard was there left in the land of the Gael,

To lament for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

And shalt thou then sleep, did the Minstrel exclaim,
Like the son of the lowly, unnoticed by fame?
No, Son of Fitzgerald! in accents of woe,

The song thou hast loved o'er thy coffin shall flow,
And teach thy wild mountains to join in the wail,
That laments for Mackenzie, last Chief of Kintail.

In vain, the bright course of thy talents to wrong, Fate deaden'd thine ear and imprison'd thy tongue; For brighter o'er all her obstructions arose

The glow of the genius they could not oppose;

And who in the land of the Saxon or Gael,

Might match with Mackenzie, High Chief of Kintail?

Thy sons rose around thee in light and in love,

All a father could hope, all a friend could approve;

He call'd his kindred bands on board

And launch'd them on the main.

Clan Gillian is to ocean gone;

Clan Gillian, fierce in foray known;
Rejoicing in the glory won

In many a bloody broil :

For wide is heard the thundering fray,

The rout, the ruin, the dismay,

When from the twilight glens away

Clan Gillian drives the spoil.

Woe to the hills that shall rebound

Our banner'd bag-pipes' maddening sound;

Clan Gillian's onset echoing round,

Shall shake their inmost cell.

* i. c. The clan of Maclean, literally the race of Gillian.

Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze, Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays; The fools might face the lightning's blaze, As wisely and as well!

WANDERING WILLIE.

ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me,
And climb'd the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea;
O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it,

And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me.

Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune,

Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain ; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting,

Now I hae gotten my Willie again.

When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were

wailing,

I sat on the beach wi' the tear in my e'e,

And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a' blaw on me.

Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring,
Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame,

Music to me were the wildest winds' roaring,

That e'er o'er Inch-Keith drove the dark ocean faem.

When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did

rattle,

And blithe was each heart for the great victory,

In secret I wept for the dangers of battle,

And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me.

But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen,

Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar; And, trust me, I'll smile, though my een they may

glisten,

For sweet after danger's the tale of the war.