May none pretend upon her throne to sit

But such as sprung from you, are born to wit: Chosen by the mob their lawless claim we slight; Yours is the old hereditary right.

COLIN AND LUCY.

A BALLAD.

OF Leinster, famed for maidens fair
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rosy hue,
Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of glossy blue.

Oh! have you seen a lily pale
When beating rains descend?

So droop'd the slow-consuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flattering swains
Take heed, ye easy fair!

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjured swains beware.

Three times all in the dead of night
A bell was heard to ring,

And, shrieking at her window thrice,
The raven flapped his wing.

Too well the lovelorn maiden knew
The solemn boding sound,
And thus in dying words bespoke
The virgins weeping round:

I hear a voice you cannot hear,
Which says, I must not stay;

I see a hand you cannot see,
Which beckons me away.

By a false heart and broken vows
In early youth I die.

Was I to blame because his bride
Was thrice as rich as I?

'

Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
Vows due to me alone;

Nor thou, fond maid! receive his kiss,
Nor think him all thy own.

'To-morrow in the church to wed Impatient both prepare ;

But know, fond maid! and know, false man! That Lucy will be there.

Then bear my corse, my comrades, bear,

This bridegroom blithe to meet,

He in his wedding-trim so gay,

I in my winding-sheet.'

She spoke; she died. Her corse was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet,

He in his wedding-trim so gay,

She in her winding-sheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?
How were these nuptials kept?
The bridesmen flock'd round Lucy dead,
And all the village wept.

Confusion, shame, remorse, despair,
At once his bosom swell;
The damps of death bedew'd his brow,
He shook, he groan'd, he fell.

From the vain bride, ah! bride no more!
The varying crimson fled,
When stretch'd before her rival's corse
She saw her husband dead.

Then to his Lucy's new-made grave
Convey'd by trembling swains,

One mould with her, beneath one sod,
For ever he remains.

Oft at this grave the constant hind
And plighted maid are seen;
With garlands grey and truelove-knots
They deck the sacred green.

But, swain forsworn! whoe'er thou art,
This hallow'd spot forbear;

Remember Colin's dreadful fate,
And fear to meet him there.

IMITATION

OF THE PROPHECY OF NEREUS.

FROM HOR. BOOK III. ODE XXV.

Dicam insigne, recens, adhuc

Indictum ore alio non secus in jugis
Ex somnis stupet Evias,

Hebrum prospiciens, et nive candidam
Thracen, ac pede barbaro
Lustratam Rhodopen.

HOR.

As Marr his round one morning took,
(Whom some call Earl and some call Duke)
And his new brethren of the blade
Shivering with fear and frost survey'd,
On Perth's bleak hills he chanced to spy
An aged wizard six feet high,

With bristled hair and visage blighted,
Wall-eyed, bare-haunch'd, and second-sighted.
The grisly sage in thought profound
Beheld the chief with back so round,
Then roll'd his eye-balls to and fro
O'er his paternal hills of snow,
And into these tremendous speeches

Broke forth the prophet without breeches:

Into what ills betray'd by thee

This ancient kingdom do I see!

Her realms unpeopled and forlorn;

Wae's me! that ever thou wert born!

Proud English loons (our clans o'ercome)
On Scottish pads shall amble home;
I see them dress'd in bonnets blue,
(The spoils of thy rebellious crew)
I see the target cast away,

And checker'd plaid become their prey;
The checker'd plaid to make a gown
For many a lass in London town.

In vain thy hungry mountaineers
Come forth in all thy warlike geers,
The shield, the pistol, dirk, and dagger,
In which they daily wont to swagger,
And oft have sallied out to pillage
The hen-roosts of some peaceful village,
Or while their neighbours were asleep
Have carried off a lowland sheep.

What boots thy high-born host of beggars, Macleans, Mackenzies, and Macgregors, With popish cut-throats, perjured ruffians, And Forster's troop of ragamuffins?

In vain thy lads around thee bandy,
Inflamed with bagpipe and with brandy.
Doth not bold Sutherland the trusty,
With heart so true and voice so rusty,
(A loyal soul!) thy troops affright,
While hoarsely he demands the fight?
Dost thou not generous Ilay dread,
The bravest hand, the wisest head?
Undaunted dost thou hear the' alarms
Of hoary Athol sheath'd in arms?

'Douglas, who draws his lineage down From thanes and peers of high renown, Fiery and young, and uncontroll'd,

With knights and squires, and barons bold,