His garment was a top-coat and an old one, His meal was a potato and a cold one; In the round world was not the match of 330 The Sultaun saw him on a holiday, Dealt forth a bonus of imputed merit, Then is Pat's time for fancy, whim, and spirit! To jest, to sing, to caper fair and free, And dance as light as leaf upon the tree. 'By Mahomet,' said Sultaun Solimaun, 'That ragged fellow is our very man! Rush in and seize him-do not do him hurt, But, will he nill he, let me have his shirt.' 340 Oppress his soul; while they delight We too who ply the Thespian art hearts She, as the flutterings here avow, MR. KEMBLE'S FAREWELL AD DRESS ON TAKING LEAVE OF THE EDINBURGH STAGE Mr. Kemble recited these lines in the dress of Macbeth, which he had just been acting, March 29, 1817. As the worn war-horse, at the trumpet's sound, Erects his mane, and neighs, and paws the ground Disdains the ease his generous lord assigns, And longs to rush on the embattled lines, So I, your plaudits ringing on mine ear, Can scarce sustain to think our parting near; To think my scenic hour forever past, And that those valued plaudits are my last. Why should we part, while still some powers remain, That in your service strive not yet in vain? Cannot high zeal the strength of youth supply, And sense of duty fire the fading eye; And all the wrongs of age remain subdued Beneath the burning glow of gratitude? It cannot be renewed, and will not last; O favored Land! renowned for arts and arms, For manly talent, and for female charms, Could this full bosom prompt the sinking line, What fervent benedictions now were thine! But my last part is played, my knell is rung, When e'en your praise falls faltering from my tongue; And all that you can hear, or I can tell, Yes! It were poor, remembering what I Is-Friends and Patrons, hail, and FARE YOU WELL. THE SUN UPON THE WEIRDLAW HILL AIR-Rimhin aluin 'stu mo run' 'It was while struggling with such languor, on one lovely evening of this autumn [1817], that he composed the following beautiful verses. They mark the very spot of their birth, namely, the then naked height overhanging the northern side of the Cauldshields Loch, from which Melrose Abbey to the eastward, and the hills of Ettrick and Yarrow to the west, are now visible over a wide range of rich woodland, all the work of the poet's hand.' Lockhart's Life, Chapter xxxix. THE sun upon the Weirdlaw Hill In Ettrick's vale is sinking sweet; The westland wind is hush and still, The lake lies sleeping at my feet. Yet not the landscape to mine eye Bears those bright hues that once it bore, Though evening with her richest dye Flames o'er the hills of Ettrick's shore. With listless look along the plain I see Tweed's silver current glide, And coldly mark the holy fane Of Melrose rise in ruined pride. The quiet lake, the baliny air, The hill, the stream, the tower, the tree Are they still such as once they were, Or is the dreary change in me? Alas! the warped and broken board, How can it bear the painter's dye ? The harp of strained and tuneless chord, How to the minstrel's skill reply? Northumberland, having besieged Chester in 613, and Brockmael, a British Prince, advancing to relieve it, the religious of the neighboring Monastery of Bangor marched in procession, to pray for the success of their countrymen. But the British being totally defeated, the heathen victor put the monks to the sword, and destroyed their monastery. The tune to which these verses are adapted is called the Monks' March, and is supposed to have been played at their ill-omened procession.' WHEN the heathen trumpet's clang O miserere, Domine! On the long procession goes, O miserere, Domine! Bands that masses only sung, Hands that censers only swung, Met the northern bow and bill, Heard the war-cry wild and shrill: Woe to Brockmael's feeble hand, Woe to Olfrid's bloody brand, Woe to Saxon cruelty, O miserere, Domine! Weltering amid warriors slain, Sing, O miserere, Domine! Bangor! o'er the murder wail! MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT AIR-Cha till mi tuille' This Lament was contributed by Scott to Albyn's Anthology in 1818, with this preface: Mackrimmon, hereditary piper to the Laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this Lament when the Clan was about to depart upon a distant and dangerous expedition. The Minstrel was impressed with a belief, which the event verified, that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; and hence the Gaelic words, Cha till mi tuille; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Mackrimmon," shall never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mackrimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too well known, from its being the strain with which the emigrants from the West Highlands and Isles usually take leave of their native shore.' |