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Where Athol's yellow vallies bloom,
Enjoy the birchen grove's perfume ;
And oft, reclin’d in rural ease,
Attend the murmur of our bees,
And mark the honied wealth they bring
From all the flow'ry stores of spring :
Oh! had we there a little farm,
By sheltering rocks and woods.kept warm ;
A cottage well laid out, with space
To lodge and rear our infant race;
With sheep obedient to the crcok,
And hives beside a little brook,
And tea, and best Virginian weed,
And one-horse chair, and faithful steed,
And woodbine twin'd around our door-
What should we seek, or hope for more ?.

At Nsullinearn, with cold half perish'd, Our shivering limbs with fire we cherishid, And got a breakfast there extempor', That almost put us out of temper : The pastor eries, “ We need not care, “ We'll dine in comfort soon at Blair : “ What hardships on the road may come, " Will make us more in love with home; “ Home—the dear scene of all that s pleasivg, “ Though boys are rude and girls are tcazing:

Where Faskilly's sweet meadows flank ye,
The famous pass of Killicranky *
Now opening full upon my view,
Did many a bloody scene renew,
Of battles fiercely fought of old
'Twixt veteran troops and chieftains bold;
Who from this threshold of the North,
In brave defiance sallied forth.
Then pensive gazing long upon it,
My tow'ring soul broke forth in sonnet,


Awful and stern the rugged entrance lowrs

That leads to Caledonia's last retreats, Where oft, in days of yore, contending pow'rs

On the dark threshold shone in dreadful feats : Where deep and dark the Garrie foams below,

Erewhile with hostile gore her sanguine course Distain'd, hoarse thund'ring bore the tale of woe

To lands far distant from her gloomy source: Here oft contending chiefs, in ireful mood,

Bade civil discord rage, like pent up fire : Here gallant clans, profuse of generous blood, Indignant, slow, from Nassau's troops retire ;

See note No. 9

Here, oft at eve, their shadowy forms are seen Like mist slow gliding o'er the mountains green.

The pass now conquer'd, we repair
To solace in the inn at Blair ;
Our hostess comes with much humility,
So soft, so modest her civility,
Such gentle manners, such urbanity,
Her kindness looks so like humanity;
I think it were almost a sin
To lose her in a yenal inn,
Now mindful of the shortening day,
We din'd in haste, and drove away ;
Nor waited to admire the place
Adorn'd by MURRAY's princely race,
Whose ancestors in regal stile
Held sovereign sway o'er Mona's isle.

The yellow horse, right briskly driving,
At Dalnacardoch late arriving,
We held a council to debate
If it were best to travel late,
Or here to lodge, then rise up soon
And travel with the morning moon.
“ My dear, my heart impatient yearns
?! To see my home and kiss


bairns ;

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" I know they're under safe direction,
“ Beneath fair CHARLOTTE's kind protection :
“ Yet I'm in such a trepidation,
“ I can't describe my perturbation."

My dear, what signifies this flurry,
· Haste oftentimes is marr’d by hurry;
The yellow horse, our fellow-creature,
Though on a lower scale in nature,

So long enjoying our protection, " Has sure some title to affection

; « Then if you do not mean outright " To kill him, sojourn here to-night.' To council, ANGUS we admitted, And to his casting vote submitted : He prais'd the stables, corn, and hay, And swore he would not stir till day, Beside the cheerful blaze we sat, And pass’d an hour in social chat : Then wearied nature sought repose, The friendly balm of human woes.



URORA thinks she rises early,
But we this morning beat her fairly,
Thro' Dalnacardoch we were groping
Three hours before her eyes were open :
Pale CYNTHIA saw our doleful case,
And shew'd thro' clouds her silver face;
And oft we bless'd LATONA's daughter
For lighting us safe thro' Drumochter *

In solemn prospect stretch'd before ye,
The mountains rise sublime and hoary ;
Th' inconstant blast the clouds dividing,
On which old heroes ghosts seem'd riding;
While straggling moon-beams point their graves,
And roaring streams thro' echoing caves
Resounding, fill the soul with terror,
While slave to superstitious error :
Not so with souls refin'd, exalted,
And with true Attic pickle salted,

* See pote No. 10.

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