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FOGARRACH EIRINN.

Gu cladach a' chuain thainig fuadanach Eirinn,

'S an driùchd air a thrusgan luidh trom agus fuar 'Si 'n dùthaich rinn 'àrach dhùisg pràmhan a chléibhe,

'Na aonar fo shiontan a' faontra mu'n cuairt ; Ach air reula na maidne ghrad bheachdaich a shùilean, 'Si'g éiridh a suas os ceann cuain m'a thìr dhùthchais, Far am b'àbhaist da òg fonn ’Òrain a dhùsgadh,

A’seinn gu h-ait, eutrom, dàin Eirinn gu bràch! O!'s truagh tha mo chor, ars' an coigreach 'se cràiteach,

Gheibh féidh 's madaidh-allť àite fasgach gu tàmh ;

With each note the spirits of feeling ascended,

Sung soft to the accents of Erin go bragh. “I once had a lover," thus ran the sweet numbers,

6 Now doomed far from me and his country to mourn; Perhaps in the cold bed of death e’en he slumbers

Ah! my soul canst thou think he shall ever return?
Yes, he shall—for he lives, and his past woes redressing,
His country shall claim him with smiles and caressing,
And, locked in my arms, ho'll pronounce her his blessing-

That country which wronged him, his Erin go bragh. “As a lamb he was meek, as a dove he was tender,

And formed was his bosom for friendship and love; But called by his country, still swift to defend her,

Undaunted, and fierce as the eagle he'd move. That ardour of passion for me that he pleaded, By what female heart could

it have been unheeded? The love of his country alone could exceed it,

For still his first wish was for Erin go bragh!
“This Harp on whose strings oft he roused each emotion,

Unrivalled the soft tones of feeling to draw,
He left me-the pledge of his heart's true devotion,

And bade me oft strike it to Erin go bragh!
Oft I've dreamed that on it, as he sat in this bower,
He touched the sad tale of his exile with power ;
Each soul-glowing patriot the strain did devour,

Struck full to the magic of Erin go bragh.
“But cease, ye vain dreams! for at morn still I lose him ;

And cease, my false hopes ! for my griefs must remain” “ No, they must not,” he cried-and he rushed to her bosom

Your Exile's returned to his Erin again! Now fallen the oppressors that sought to destroy me, Love, friendship, and Erin shall henceforth employ me.” * Tis himself!she exclaimed:“Oh ye powers! ye o’erjoy me!

Then blest be my country, blest Erin go bragh!"

But I have no refuge from famine and danger,

A home and a country remain not for me. Never again, in the green sunny bowers, Where

my

forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet hours, Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers

And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh. O Erin my country! though sad and forsaken,

In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ;
But alas! in a far distant land I awaken,

And sigh for the friends who can meet me no more!
On cruel fate! wilt thou never replace me
In a mansion of peace, where no perils can chace me?
Never again shall my brothers embrace me?

They died to defend me, or lived to deplore !
Where is my cabin door, fast by the wild wood ?

Sisters and sire! did you weep for its fall ?
Where is my mother that tended my childhood ?

And where is my bosom friend, dearer than all ?
Oh my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure,
Why did you dote on a fast fading treasure ?
Tears, like the raindrop, may fall without measure,

But rapture and beauty they cannot recal.
Yet all its sad recollections suppressing,

One dying wish my fond bosom can draw ;
Erin! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing !

Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh !
Buried and cold, when my heart stills its motion,
Green be thy fields,--sweetest isle of the ocean!
And thy harp-striking Bards sing aloud with devotion

Erin mavournin-Erin go bragh!

BRUCE'S ADDRES S.*

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled.
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led ;
Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to victory!

* In the year 1314 Edward II. invaded Scotland with an army of 100,000 men. King Robert Bruce met him at Bannockburn, near Stirling, with only 40,000 Scots. The above Address is

Ach dhomhs' cha'n 'eil tearmunn o ghort a's o-ghabhadh,

Dachaidh a's dùthaich, mo chùl riu gu bràch. Gu bràch ann an taice nam badan gorm, blàtha, Far'n do thuinnich mo shinnsear cha chaith mi mo làithean, Le fiadh-lusan bòidheach cha chòmhdaich mo chlàrsach,

'S cha sheinn mi o 'teudan ceòl Eirinn gu bràch! Eirinn, mo dhùthaich! ged 's tùrsach fo thar mi,

A’m aisling a ghnàth tha mi 'tàladh a'd' chòin ;,
Ach 'n uair dhùisgeas gu moch an tìr choimhich a ta mi,

A’ caoidh nan caomh chàirdean nach faic mi ni's mò.
O! 's cruaidh an càs gun bhi 'n àit' air mo chàradh
Far am bithinn fo dhìdein—an sìth o gach gàbhadh !
A chaoidh cha chuir fàilte le gràdh orm mo bhràithrean,

Ga m' dhion cuid fhuair bås, 's na tha làthair ga m' bhròn. C'a' bheil mo bhothan, am fochar nan coilltean?

Ghuil m'athair 's mo phiuthar 'n uair thuit e gu làr; C'à' bheil mo mhàthair a.dh'àraich mi'm naoidhean ?

A's c'à' bheil mo cheud-ghràdh a's m' fheudail thar chàich? 0! m'anam brònach, rinn sòlas do dhìobairt, Com'an d' chuir thu ùigh ann an dùil tha neo-bhri'or ? Ged shileas mo dheòir uam mar dhòrtadh na dìle,

Cha phill mùirn a's mais' air an ais leo, o'n bhàs. Ged tha cui’neachadh m'àbhaist an tràs 'toirt mo chlì uam,

Aon athchuinge bàis a’m uchd pramhail ni tàmh; Eirinn, mo bheannachd biodh agad mar dhìleab,

Fhearainn mo shinnsearaibh, Slàn leat gu bràch! 'Nuair bhios anns an uaigh mo chri' fuar 'se gun ghluasad, S do bhàird le guth ard "seinn le’n clársaichean fuaimneach,

• Eirinn, mo mhùirnein! Eirinn gu bràch!

BROSNACHADH BHRUCE.

•Threun' 's tric le Wallace 'dh'fhuiling creuchd !
'S fo Bhruce chaidh dàn'

gu

ar nan euchd! Nis iarraibh bàs am blár nam beum,

No buaidh gu treun 's an strìth!

supposed to have been spoken by Bruce to his army on the approach of the enemy. The English were defeated, an immense slaughter followed, and Scotland was delivered from her invaders.

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Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front of battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power,

Chains and slavery !

Wha will be a traitor-knave ?
Wha can fill a coward's grave

?
Wha so base as be a slave?

Let him turn and flee!

Wha, for Scotland's king and law,
Freedom's sword would strongly draw,
Freeman stand or freeman fa',

Let him follow me!

By oppression's woes and pains,
By your sons in servile chains !
We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be free! :
Lay the proud usurper low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty in every blow!

Let us do, or die !

LINES
On the Death of Mrs William M'Kinnon Fort-Augustus.*
She is gone, she is gone, to the mansions of rest,

And the storm now is hushed in a calm;
She has tuned her sweet harp with the choirs of the blest,

In praises of God and the Lamb.
Yes! the wild winds are still, and the tempest is hushed,

And the voyager is safe on the shore;
And the tears now are dry that had formerly gushed;

And she sighs and she sorrows no more.
She lived as a pilgrim,-she died in the faith,

Her heart and her home were above;
And no more shall she mourn o’er a body of death,

Or affections from Jesus that rove. * We have seen verses very like the foregoing in an old volume of Poems; we are not, therefore, altogether satisfied, that the

So latha 'chruais-an uair tha là'ir!
Feuch feachd fo'n cruaidh air cluan an àir!
A' teachd le'n uaill gu buaireas blair

A dheanamh thràillean dhibh !

Cò thig do'n strith neo-dhìleas, claon?
Cò dh'iarradh uaigh ach cluan an raoin ?
Cò strìochdadh sìos gu dìblidh, faoin

Air cùl nan claon-f hear clith?
Cò ’n càs a rìgh, a riogh'chd, 's a reachd,
Bheir beum nan geur-lann treun an gleachd !
Gu buaidh a'm blår no bàs 'na bheachd,

An gaisgeach leanadh mi.
Air truaighe 's teinn, ar n-ainneirt chruaidh,
'S ar sliochd an eds nan tràillibh truagh';
O'r cuislibh tràight' air sgàth ar sluaigh,

Thig saorsa bhuan le sith!
Biodh uaibhrich sleuchdt' fo'r beuma bàis;
Fear-ainneirt dh'eug 'nuair ghéilleas nàmh,
Tha saorsa fhéin a'm beum 'ur làmh,

'Ar n-aghaidh-buaidh no bàs san strith!

RANNAN Air Bàs Bean Uilleam Mhic Ionmhuinn an Cille-Chuimein. O! dh'fhalbh i air imrich do chomhnuidh na fois,

Thainig fosadh air doinionn nan sian ;
'S gu'n d' ghleus is’ a clàrsach ri naomh-cheol nam flatb,

Sheinn cliù do'n Ard-thriath a's do'n Uan.
Seadh, shiochaidh an stoirm, agus thàirling am fiath,

'S tha 'n taisdealach tearuint' air tìr;
Gu'n do thiormaich na deoir a bha roimhe so 'sruth,

A's air osnaich a's gul thainig crioch.
B’eilthire a heatha; sa' chreidimh bha 'bàs,

Bha 'cridhe 's a h-àros gu h-àrd;
Cha ghearain i tuille a h-aigne 'bhi fuar,

N'a colunn bhi buailteach do'n bhàs.
English of these lines, were originally composed on the death of
Mrs William M‘Kinnon.

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