And Teesdale can remember yet
How Fate to Virtue paid her debt,
And, for their troubles, bade them prove
A lengthen'd life of peace and love."

Time and Tide had thus their sway,
Yielding, like an April day,
Smiling noon for sullen morrow,
Years of joy for hours of sorrow!

BALLADS,

LYRICAL PIECES,

AND

SONGS.

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GLENFINLAS,

ов

LORD RONALD'S CORONACH.

[The tradition, upon which the following stanzas are founded, runs thus: While two Highland hunters were passing the night in a solitary bothy (a hut, built for the purpose of hunting,) and making merry over their venison and whisky, one of them expressed a wish, that they had pretty lasses, to complete their party. The words were scarcely uttered. when two beautiful young womeu, habited in green, entered the hut, dancing and singing. One of the hunters was seduced by the syren, who attached herself particularly to him. to leave the hot: the other remained, and, suspicious of the fair seducers, continued to play upon a trump, or Jew's harp, some strain, cons-crated to the Virgin Mary. Day at length came, and the temptress vinished. Searching in the forest, he found the bones of his unfortunate friend; who had been torn to pieces and devoured by the fiend. into whose toils he had fallen. The place was from thence called, The Glen of the Green Women.]

"For them the viewless forms of air oter,
Their bidding heed, and at their beck repair
They know what spirit brews the storniful day,
And heartless oft, like moody maduess, stare,

To see the phantom train their secret work prepare.

"O HONE a rie'! O hone a rie'!*

The pride of Albin's line is o'er,
And fall'n Glenartney's stateliest tree;
We ne'er shall see Lord Ronald more!

O, sprung from great Macgillianore,
The chief that never fear'd a foe,
How matchless was thy broad claymore,
How deadly thine unerring bow!

Well can the Saxon widows tell,
How, on the Teith's resounding shore,

The boldest Lowland warriors fell,
As down from Lenny's pass you bore.

O hone a rie' signifies-" Alas for the prince, or chief,"

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But o'er his hills, on festal day,

How blaz'd Lord Ronald's Beltane tree;
While youths and maids the light strathspey
So nimbly danc'd, with Highland glee.
Cheer'd by the strength of Ronald's shell,
E'en age forgot his tresses hoar;

But now the loud lament we swell,
O, ne'er to see Lord Ronald more!
From distant isles a chieftain came,
The joys of Ronald's hall to find,
And chase with him the dark brown game
That bounds o'er Albin's hills of wind,

"Twas Moy; whom, in Columba's isle,
The seer's prophetic spirit found,
As, with a minstrel's fire the while,
He wak'd his harp's harmonious sound.
Full many a spell to him was known,
Which wand'ring spirits shrink to hear;
And many a lay of potent tone,

Was never meant for mortal ear.

For there, 'tis said, in mystic mood,
High converse with the dead they hold,
And oft espy the fated shroud,

That shall the future corpse enfold.

O so it fell, that on a day,

To rouse the red deer from their den,
The chiefs have ta'en their distant way,
And scour'd the deep Glentinlas glen.
No vassals wait, their sports to aid,

To watch their safety, deck their board:
Their simple dress, the Highland plaid
Their trusty guard, the Highland sword.
Three summer days, through brake and dell,
Their whistling shafts successful flew;

And still, when dewy evening fell,
The quarry to their hut they drew.

In grey Glenfinlas' deepest nook
The solitary cabin stood,

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