What matter? The star-angels know it all.

They who came sweeping through the silent night And stood before me, yet did not appall:

Till, fighting 'gainst me in their courses bright, Celestial smote terrestrial. -Hence, my fall.

Hence, Heaven cursed me with a granted prayer;
Made my hill-seat eternal; bade me keep
My pageant of majestic lone despair,

While one by one into the infinite deep

Sank kindred, realm, throne, world: yet I lay there.

There still I lie. Where are my glories fled?
My wisdom that I boasted as divine?
My grand primeval women fair, who shed

Their whole life's joy to crown one hour of mine, And lived to curse the love they coveted?

Gone,

gone. Uncounted æons have rolled by, And still my ghost sits by its corpse of stone, And still the blue smile of the new-formed sky Finds me unchanged. Slow centuries crawling on Bring myriads happy death: -I cannot die.

FAR

Arranteenie.

THE LASS O' ARRANTEENIE.

WAR lone amang the Highland hills,
Midst Nature's wildest grandeur,
By rocky dens and woody glens
With weary steps I wander.
The langsome way, the darksome day,
The mountain mist sae rainy,
Are naught to me when gaun to thee,
Sweet lass o' Arranteenie.

Yon mossy rosebud down the howe,
Just opening fresh and bonny,
Blinks sweetly 'neath the hazel bough,
And 's scarcely seen by ony;
Sae sweet amidst her native hills

Obscurely blooms my Jeanie,
Mair fair and gay than rosy May,
The flower o' Arranteenie.

Now from the mountain's lofty brow
I view the distant ocean,

There Avarice guides the bounding prow,
Ambition courts promotion:-

Let Fortune pour her golden store,

Her laurelled favors many;

Give me but this, my soul's first wish,

The lass o' Arranteenie.

Robert Tannahill.

Athole.

CAM YE BY ATHOLE?

CAM ye by Athole braes, lad wi' the philabeg,

Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry? Saw ye my lad, wi' his bonnet and white cockade, Leaving his mountains to follow Prince Charlie ? Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee?

Lang hast thou loved and trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee?

King of the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince
Charlie!

I hae but ae son, my brave young Donald!
But if I had ten they should follow Glengary:
Health to MacDonald and gallant Clan Ronald,
For they are the men that wad die for their Charlie.
Charlie, Charlie, etc.

I'll to Lochiel and Appin, and kneel to them;
Down by Lord Murray, and Roy of Kildarlie;
Brave Macintosh he shall fly to the field with them;
They are the lads I can trust wi' my Charlie.
Charlie, Charlie, etc.

Down through the Lowlands, down wi' the Whigamore, Loyal true Highlanders, down wi' them rarely! Ronald and Donald, drive on with the braid claymore, Over the necks of the foes of Prince Charlie!

Charlie, Charlie, etc.

James Hogg.

Auchinblae.

THE BRAES OF AUCHINBLAE.

S clear is Luther's wave, I ween,

As gay the grove, the vale as green;

But, O, the days that we have seen
Are fled, and fled for aye, Mary!

O, we have often fondly strayed
In Fordoun's green embowering glade,
And marked the moonbeam as it played
On Luther's bonnie wave, Mary.

Since then, full many a year and day
With me have slowly passed away,
Far from the braes of Auchinblae,
And far from love and thee, Mary!

And we must part again, my dear,
It is not mine to linger here;
Yes, we must part, and, O, I fear,
We meet not here again, Mary!

For on Culloden's bloody field
Our hapless Prince's fate is sealed,
Last night to me it was revealed

Sooth as the word of heaven, Mary!

And ere to-morrow's sun shall shine
Upon the heights of Galloquhine,
A thousand victims at the shrine
Of tyranny shall bleed, Mary!

Hark! hark! they come, the foemen come,

I but wheresoe'er I roam,

go;

With thee my heart remains at home.

Adieu, adieu for aye, Mary!

George Menzies.

Auchtergaven.

THE FOLK O' OCHTERGAEN.

OCHTERGAEN, So provincially named, is Auchtergaven, a village midway between Perth and Dunkeld.

HAPPY, happy be their dwallin's,

By the burn an' in the glen,

Cheerie lasses, cantie callans,
Are they a' in Ochtergaen.

Happy was my youth amang them,
Rantin' was my boyhood's hour;
A' the winsome ways about them
Now, when gane, I number o'er.

-

Weel I mind ilk wood an' burnie,
Couthie hame an' muirland fauld, -

Ilka sonsie, cheerfu' mither,

An' ilk father douce an' auld!