"Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle, And this Lord Ullin's daughter. —

"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?"

Outspoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief - I'm ready : —
It is not for your silver bright;
But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird In danger shall not tarry;

-

So though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry." -

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer. —

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”.

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,—
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.-

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore;
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade, His child he did discover:

One lovely hand she stretched for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water:

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!-oh my daughter!'

"Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore, Return or aid preventing :—

The waters wild went o'er his child.

And he was left lamenting.

ODE TO THE MEMORY OF BURNS.

SOUL of the Poet! wheresoe'er,

Reclaimed from earth, thy genius plume
Her wings of immortality:

Suspend thy harp in happier sphere,
And with thine influence illume
The gladness of our jubilee.

And fly like fiends from secret spell,
Discord and Strife, at BURNS's name,
Exorcised by his memory;

For he was chief of bards that swell
The heart with songs of social flame,
And high delicious revelry.

And Love's own strain to him was given,
To warble all its ecstacies

With Pythian words unsought, unwilled-
Love, the surviving gift of Heaven,
The choicest sweet of Paradise,
In life's else bitter cup distilled.

Who, that has melted o'er his lay
To Mary's soul, in Heaven above,
But pictured sees, in fancy strong,
The landscape and the livelong day
That smiled upon their mutual love?
Who that has felt forgets the song?

Nor skilled one flame alone to fan:
His country's high-souled peasantry
What patriot-pride he taught! - how much

To weigh the inborn worth of man!
And rustic life and poverty

Grow beautiful beneath his touch.

Him, in his clay-built cot, the muse
Entranced, and showed him all the forms,
Of fairy-light and wizard gloom,
(That only gifted Poet views,)

The Genii of the floods and storms,
And martial shades from Glory's tomb.

On Bannock-field what thoughts arouse
The swain whom BURNS's song inspires!
Beat not his Caledonian veins,

As o'er the heroic turf he ploughs,
With all the spirit of his sires,

And all their scorn of death and chains?

And see the Scottish exile tanned

By many a far and foreign clime,

Bend o'er his home-born verse, and weep In memory of his native land,

With love that scorns the lapse of time,
And ties that stretch beyond the deep.

Encamped by Indian rivers wild,
The soldier resting on his arms,

In BURNS's carol sweet recalls

The scenes that blessed him when a child,
And glows and gladdens at the charms
Of Scotia's woods and water-falls.

O deem not, 'midst this worldly strife,

An idle art the Poet brings:

Let high Philosophy control,

And sages calm, the stream of life, "Tis he refines its fountain-springs, The nobler passions of the soul

It is the muse that consecrates
The native banner of the brave,
Unfurling, at the trumpet's breath,
Rose, thistle, harp; 'tis she elates
To sweep the field, or ride the wave,
A sun-burst in the storm of death.

And thou, young hero, when thy pall
Is crossed with mournful sword and plume,
When public grief begins to fade,

And only tears of kindred fall,

Who but the Bard shall dress thy tomb,
And greet with fame thy gallant shade?

Such was the soldier - BURNS, forgive
That sorrows of mine own intrude
In strains to thy great memory due.
In verse like thine, oh! could he live,
The friend I mourned - the brave, the good-
Edward that died at Waterloo ! *

Farewell, high chief of Scottish song!
That couldst alternately impart
Wisdom and rapture in thy page,

And brand each vice with satire strong,
Whose lines are mottoes of the heart,
Whose truths electrify the sage.

Farewell! and ne'er may Envy dare
To wring one baleful poison drop
From the crushed laurels of thy bust:
But while the lark sings sweet in air,
Still may the grateful pilgrim stop,

To bless the spot that holds thy dust.

• Major Edward Hodge, of the 7th Hussars, who fell at the head of

his squadron in the attack of the Polish Lancers.