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But redder yet that light shall glow,
On Linden's hills of stained snow;
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On ye brave, or the grave!

Who rush to glory, o

Wave, Munich all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier's sepulchre.



My native land,-land of my heart!
O'er thee yet lingers memory's spell;
And though from thee I ever part,

On thy wild shores my heart will dwell;
For there, in youth's bright dawn, I wove
The sweet-the glittering dream of love.

My native land, my happy home!
Endeared by friendship's holy tie,
To other brighter realms I roam,

But far behind is love's deep sigh;
And feeling's burning, magic wand,
Will conjure up my native land.

My native land, my earthly heaven!
My heart yet lingers on thy shore;

And though misfortune's blast be driven,
And ruin's wild o'erwhelming roar

On this lone heart may lower a while,
A thought of thee will light Hope's smile.

My native land,-proud freedom's land!
The burning tears yet dim my eyes,
As from thy towering mountain strand
On the fleet breeze the vessel flies,
And tears, for ever, from my sight,

That home which love with joy did light.

My native land,-land of the brave!

Where Bruce-where Wallace fought and bled!. Who fearless stemmed the

gory wave

Of tyranny,-who dauntless led Proud freedom's ranks, till, blazing high O'er Scotia's hills, gleamed Victory.

'Twas on thy shores bright Fancy's fire
First gleamed like lightning o'er the deep;
And kindled maddening wild desire,

To emulate their fame who sleep

In victory's shroud,-whose red right hand.
From slavery freed my native land.

The glow of heaven doth brighter gleam,
Dear Scotia! on thy'mountain strand,

And lovelier on my soul doth beam


That sun which gilds my native land!

For love and joy still linger there

The future teems with dark despair!

E'en Hope was gone when thy loved shore
Receded from my eager view:

Her torch she dashed amid the roar

Of Ocean's waves! Her last adieu

Yet in my ear doth lingering dwell!

My native land, farewell!-farewell!



Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day

When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array!
For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight,
And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight;
They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown;
Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down!
Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain,
And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain.
But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war,
What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ?
'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await,
Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate.
A steed comes at morning: no rider is there;
But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.

Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!

Oh weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead; t For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave,

Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

-Lochiel, Lochiel, beware of the day!

For, dark and despairingy my sight I may seal,
But man cannot cover what God would reveal :
'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,
And coming events cast their shadows before.

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Like colours on the evening main,

Each loveliest till it dies.

First, bends the burning heart of youth

Before some heart untried

Deems like its own a stranger's truth,

And scorns the world beside!

Then life is one enchanted dream,

The hours too swift roll on;


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