"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen, My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride; Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?"—

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief—I 'm ready.—
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady."

“And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry ;

So though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry.”

By this the storm grew loud apace; The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men—
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries;
"Though tempests round us gather;
I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her—

When, O! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gathered o'er her.

THE SANDS O' DEE.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing ;-

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade
His child he did discover;

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-Oh, my daughter!"

'Twas vain :-the loud waves lashed the shore,

Return or aid preventing:

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

The Sands o' Dee.

"MARY, go and call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

And call the cattle home,

Across the sands o' Dee!"

The western wind was wild and dank wi' foam,
And all alone went she.

The creeping tide came up along the sand,

And o'er and o'er the sand,

And round and round the sand,

As far as eye could see;

The blinding mist came down and hid the land—

And never home came she.

81

"Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair

A tress o' golden hair

O' drowned maiden's hair

Above the nets at sea?

Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee."

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,

The cruel, crawling foam,

The cruel, hungry foam,

To her grave beside the sea;

But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home Across the sands o' Dee!

CHARLES Kingsley.

On the Death of George the Third.

I

WRITTEN UNDER WINDSOR TERRACE.

SAW him last on this terrace proud,

Walking in health and gladness,

Begirt with his court; and in all the crowd
Not a single look of sadness.

Bright was the sun, the leaves were green-
Blithely the birds were singing;

The cymbals replied to the tambourine,
And the bells were merrily ringing.

I have stood with the crowd beside his bier,
When not a word was spoken-

When every eye was dim with a tear,
And the silence by sobs was broken.

I have heard the earth on his coffin pour
To the muffled drum's deep rolling,
While the minute-gun, with its solemn roar,
Drowned the death-bells' tolling.

ON THE DEATH OF GEORGE THE THIRD. 83

The time-since he walked in his glory thus,
To the grave till I saw him carried-
Was an age of the mightiest change to us,
But to him a night unvaried.

A daughter beloved, a queen, a son,

And a son's sole child, have perished;
And sad was each heart, save only the one
By which they were fondest cherished:

For his eyes were sealed and his mind was dark,
And he sat in his age's lateness-

Like a vision throned, as a solemn mark
Of the frailty of human greatness;

His silver beard o'er a bosom spread
Unvexed by life's commotion,
Like a yearly lengthening snow-drift shed
On the calm of a frozen ocean.

Still o'er him oblivion's waters lay,

Though the stream of life kept flowing;
When they spoke of our king, 't was but to say
The old man's strength was going.

At intervals thus the waves disgorge,
By weakness rent asunder,

A piece of the wreck of the Royal George,
To the people's pity and wonder.

He is gone at length-he is laid in the dust,
Death's hand his slumbers breaking ;-
For the coffined sleep of the good and just
Is a sure and blissful waking.

His people's heart is his funeral urn;

And should sculptured stone be denied him,
There will his name be found, when in turn
We lay our heads beside him.

HORACE SMITH.

Ye Mariners of England.

I.

E Mariners of England!

YE

That guard our native seas;

Whose flag has braved, a thousand years

The battle and the breeze!

Your glorious standard launch again,

To match another foe!

And sweep through the deep

While the stormy winds do blow

While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy winds do blow.

II.

The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!—

For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave.

Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep

While the stormy winds do blow-
While the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.

III.

Britannia needs no bulwarks,

No towers along the steep;

Her march is o'er the mountain-wave,

Her home is on the deep.

With thunders from her native oak

She quells the floods below,

As they roar on the shore

When the stormy winds do blow

When the battle rages loud and long,

And the stormy winds do blow.