We mourn our youthful Prince's adverse fate, while George usurps his royal throne; though men in law well learned, say, our sceptre he has no right to sway. The time to combat with this foreign foe, was ere he 'd broke our power, and brought us low. Now this haughty Hanoverian king slights and oppresses us in every thing. The tyrant strips of native arms and clothes, alike his faithful friends and bitterest foes.

Though compelled to assume the breeches as our dress, hateful to us is the fashion that binds us round the houghs as with ligatures. Erewhile we moved erect and boldly, with our belted plaids; but now our dress resembles Summacks, and this is the reward of the brave whose arms sent Duke William victoriously home. Alas! we are disgraced; we grieve, we are a prey to melancholy; since we have appeared in this hateful garb, it is with difficulty we recognise each other at feast or fair.

I have seen the day I would answer the man with a smile of contempt who should tell me that I should ever wear so unmanly a costume, a costume so foreign to my kindred.

Now our heads are thatched with dingy hats, and our clumsy coats are as sleek as mill can make them. True, they defend us from the cold; but where are gone our smartness and picturesque appearance? It pleaseth not our nobles, our gentry, or our commons. Ah! how unfit it is for ascending and coming down from the mountains! We blush in it, in the presence of the fair.

When the House of Hanover was in danger, the Campbells and their followers rose in a body to support it. They were always the first in every danger, their bravery and influence prevailed; and their reward is now to be disrobed and insulted in every possible way but it is hardly to be believed, should such another occasion occur, that they shall be found on the same side again.

Duke William's gratitude our eyes behold. Like prisoners, disarmed and humbled, without dirks, without guns, swords, cross-belts, or pistols, we are made the Saxon's jest. Our indignation knows no bounds. To us victory has proved an evil. Should Charles return we are ready to stand by him: then, up with the Carmine plaid! then up with the rifle !

Quilted pads, that cover the preserve him from being galled. load: query? Gaëlic.

greater part of a packhorse's body to Summa is an old law term for a horse

ORAN DO'N EIDIDH GHAIDHEALACH.

Fhuair mi nuaidheachd as ur,
Tha taitneadh re run mo chridh
Gu faighe' mid fasan an duthch'
A chleachd sinn an tus ar tim.
O'n tha sinn le gloineachan lan,
A' bruidheann air manran binn,
So i deoch-slainnte Mhontrose,
A sheasamh a choir so dhuinn.

Chunnaic mi'n duigh an Dun-eidean,
Comunn na feile cruinn,

Litir an fhortain thug sgeul,
Air toiseach an ei' neis dhuinn.
Piob gu loinneil an gleus,
Air soilleireachd re an tuim;
Thug sinn am folluis ar 'n eideadh,
A's co a their reubail ruinn.

Deich bliadhna fichead a's corr,
Bha casag do'n chlo mar druim,
Fhuair sinn ad agus cloc,

'S cha bhuineadh an seors' ud dhuinn: Buchdaill a' dunadh ar brog,

'Se 'm bar-ial bu bhoidhche leinn;
Rinn an droch fhasan a bh 'oirnn,
Na bodaich d'ar 'n oigridh ghrinn.

Mhill e pairt d'ar cumachd
On bhlar, gu mullach ar cinn;
Bha sinn co-lan do mhulad,
'Sgun d'fhas gach duine gu tinn:
'S ann a bha 'n cas co duilich,
'Sa thainig uile re'm linn,
'Nuair a rinn pairti Luinduinn,
Gach ait' a's urram thoirt dhinn

Fhuair e dhuinn comas nan arm,
A dheanamh dhuinn sealg nan stuc,
'Sa ghleidheadh ar daoine 'sa champ,
Le fagail an neamhdean bruit.
Thogadh e misneach nan clann,
Gu iomairt nan lann le sunnt,
Piob a's bratach re crann,
'Si caiseamachd ard mo ruin.

Fhuair sin cothrom an drast
A thoilicheas gradh gach dhuthch',

Comas ar culaidh chur oirnn,
Gu fharaid do phor nan lub:
Tha sinn a nis mar is coir,
A's taitneadh an seol r'ar suil;
Chuir sinn am briogis air lar,
'S cha d'thig e gu brath a cuil.

Chuir sinn a suas an deise,
Bhios uallach freagarach dhuinn,
Breacan-an-fheile preasach,
A's peiteag do'n eudach ur;
Cot' a chadadh nam ball,
Am bitheadh a' charnaid dluth,
Osan nach ceangail ar ceim,
'S nach ruigeadh mar reis an glun.

Togaidh na Gaidheil an ceann,
Cha bhi iad an fanng ni's mo,
Dh' fhalbh na speirichin teann,
Thug orra bhi mall gun lugh:
Siubhlaidh iad fireach nam beann,
A dh'iarruidh dhamh seang le'n cu;
'S eutrom theid iad a dhannsa,
Freagraidh iad srann gach ciuil.

Tha sinn an coman an uasail
A choisinn le chruadal cliu,
Chuir e le teomachd laidir,
Faoineachd chaich air cul.
Oighre cinn-feadhna nan Gramach,
'S ioma fuil ard na ghnuis:
'S ann tha Marcus an aidh
Am mac thig an ait an Diuc.

TRANSLATION.

Ode on the Restoration of the Highland Dress.

BY DUNCAN MACINTYRE.

Tidings of gladness! tidings fraught with joy! We may again resume our country's garb. Fill every shell! more wine! fill, fill them high! A health to Montrose, the restorer of our rights.

To-day I've seen a sight pleasant to my view! assembled heroes clad in belted plaids: I've seen and heard conspicuous on the hill the tuneful warlike pipes. Now in our native garb we may appear: and who dares taunt us with opprobrious names?

Our dress has been for thirty years and more, the fashion of foreigners the frowsy cassock, with the hat and cloak. Buckles

we've had to our shoes, though ties would have better suited our tastes. The hateful costume made our youths appear shapeless and spiritless as aged clowns.

It spoiled our symmetry from top to toe. A sickly melancholy seized us all. We grieved that the London party had succeeded in depriving us of every honour and trust.

Our rights are now restored; we assume our favourite garb in spite of our wily foes: we now appear as becomes us: the gray galligaskins are flung away, never to be resumed.

We have now, as in former times, those arms that can protect us in the field, and lay our enemies low with which we can procure the spoils of the mountain and the forest. We hear again the great pipe's martial sounds, that excite to deeds that become the brave: again the banner waves o'er the heads of the valiant.

All our hills re-echo to sounds of joy. Our men appear now in their beloved tartans; the coat that displays the strife of colours, but in which the carmine prevails. Gracefully flow our belted plaids. Our hose reach not the knee, nor bind the pace.

The Gaël now lifts his head, no longer encumbered with those fetters that lessened his speed and lowered his spirits: he now seeks the roe in the woods, and the deer on the hill: the rocks re-echo to the voice of his fleet greyhound: and, true to the viol's notes, he now with a light heart leads the fair through the mazes of the sprightly reel.

The debt of gratitude we owe the noble Graham shall not be forgotten. Before his manly eloquence our foes have quailed. Many a noble current flows in his veins, the heir of great Mon

trose.

Need we extend this paper by descanting on the picturesque garb of Caledonia, by stating the respect which is paid to the breacan? That dress is no longer proscribed, and those who delight to wear it yield to none in loyalty. They are no longer reproached for their shabby blue caps and half-clad limbs. The Highlander is received at the British court in a costume in which his late Majesty, of glorious memory, appeared, when he held his first court in the ancient palace of Holyrood.

SECOND LETTER OF AN AMATEUR GIPSY.

HERESIES IN TASTE. PARLIAMENT OF TASTE PROPOSED. INVIOLABILITY OF RUINS AND OF CHURCHYARDS. DEATH'S TREE, THE YEW, THE NOBLEST MAUSOLEUM.

To the Editors of the Caledonian and Cambrian Quarterly Magazine.

GENTLEMEN,

So vast an hiatus maximè deflendus has occurred in my correspondence, that your afflicted readers, who cannot possibly have forgotten me, have, ere this, doubtless given me up for dead in some picturesque ditch or romantic peatbog. They have pictured me in their mournful imaginations contributing even still, in death, to that "picturesque" which was a sort of religion to me alive; bleaching by the rock ridge, whence I have tumbled headlong in the pursuit of a "view;" formed half into a skeleton by the bonepecker kite, or my peripatetic members projecting upright alone in the mud-bog aforesaid, adorning its naked deficiency of the arms of trees, by substituting the legs of man.

Lord Bacon tells us, that once, on his expressing to the Spanish ambassador, Gondomar, some wish or design to leave public life for a private one of meditation, the latter began telling a tale of an old rat. He would needs forsake

the world-of rats, and strictly forbade his dear sons to disturb him in his holy retreat. After some time, growing alarmed for papa, the young whiskered gentlemen stole in on him, and found him sitting in the very middle of a delicious Parmasan cheese. In like manner, gentlemen, to ease your anxieties about my disappearance from your pages, I hasten to inform you, that so far from having bade adieu for ever to the romantic in this world, I am at this moment sitting, in defiance of kites and bogs, in the very middle of one of our finest monastic ruins, by a resplendent moon, namely, Llanthony Abbey. Here, in this solemn vista of mountains, watered by the little, not unlovely, river Honddy, St. David, (those saints were perfect Dr. Syntaxes in their way,) charmed with the spot, built him a chapel, and turned hermit therein. In truth, it is a scene to inspire such thoughts in those

"Who their mortality have felt,

And seek a refuge from their hopes decayed,

In the deep umbrage of a green hill's shade."

And here is a black instead of a green one, for all above is lofty ranging height behind height, of the Black Moun