The winged storms, chanting their thunder psalm To other lands, leave azure chasms of calm Over this isle, or weep themselves in dew, From whence the fields and woods ever renew Their green and golden immortality.' Yet in the little circle of calm carved out by the magician of 'The Gentle Shepherd' there is no insipidity. Lust is sternly excluded, but love of the purest and warmest kind there breathes. The parade of learning is not there; but strong common sense thinks, and robust and manly eloquence declaims. Humour too is there, and many have laughed at Mause and Baldy, whom all the frigid wit of 'Love for Love' and the 'School for Scandal' could only move to contempt or pity. A _denouement_ of great skill is not wanting to stir the calm surface of the story by the wind of surprise; the curtain falls over a group of innocent, guileless, and happy hearts, and as we gaze at them we breathe the prayer, that Scotland's peerage and Scotland's peasantry may always thus be blended into one bond of mutual esteem, endearment, and excellence. Well might Campbell say--'Like the poetry of Tasso and Ariosto, that of the "Gentle Shepherd" is engraven on the memory of its native country. Its verses have passed into proverbs, and it continues to be the delight and solace of the peasantry whom it describes.' Ramsay has very slightly touched on the religion of his countrymen. This is to be regretted; but if he had no sympathy with that, he, at least, disdained to counterfeit it, and its poetical aspects have since been adequately sung by other minstrels. LOCHABER NO MORE. 1 Farewell to Lochaber, and farewell, my Jean, Where heartsome with thee I've mony day been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear, And no for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far bloody shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more. 2 Though hurricanes rise, and rise every wind, They'll ne'er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunder on louder waves roar, That's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained; By ease that's inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love's the reward of the brave, And I must deserve it before I can crave. 3 Then glory, my Jeany, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er can have merit for thee, And without thy favour I'd better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should luck to come gloriously hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more. THE LAST TIME I CAME O'ER THE MOOR.