'Bring forth the bonnet that I wore When blood was on the heather, Though in the mountain wind no more Will nod its eagle feather: Gird on my sword, of temper tried, Old beam of hope in danger, To deeds of hardihood allied, And then admit the stranger!' Attendants clad the dying man In garb that well became The leader of a martial clan, A warrior of fame; Admitted then his guest, who met Reception stern and cold; The Highland Chief could not forget The bloody feuds of old. The stranger soon withdrew. 'Now call The harper in, to cheer My passing spirit with the strain Most welcome to my ear!' The hoary minstrel brought his lyre, To notes of battle strung, And fingering its chords of fire, In stormy concert, sung: I. 'The plaid round his shoulders our leader hath thrown, And a gathering blast on his bugle hath blown; He calls on the dauntless and ready of hand To gather around him with bonnet and brand; Like hounds scenting out the retreat of the stag, We quit, for the Lowlands, our home on the crag. II. 'The dirk of our fathers in gore we must dye! Will the falcon forbear, when the quarry is nigh? The Saxon dreams not, in his flowery vale, That our pennon is flung to the welcoming gale; That we come from the mountains to scourge and destroy, And the chieftain we follow is dreaded Rob Roy. III. 'On the head of Macgregor a price hath been set, With the blood of our clan Lowland sabres are wet; Elated by triumph, red wine freely flows, And loud is the song in the camp of our foes; But to shrieking will change their demoniac joy, When sound our glad pipers the charge of Rob Roy!' Ere died the battle-song away, Rose up the voice of wail, While motionless the chieftain lay, With face like marble pale. No kindly word from him repaid The harper for his strain; The hushing hand of Death was laid On heart, and pulse, and brain! _Avon, May,1837._ W. H. C. H. A TALE OF TIGHT BOOTS. AN AUTHENTIC FRAGMENT FROM AN UNWRITTEN HISTORY. 'WHAT! How's this! I told you to make one of my boots _larger_ than t' other; 'stead o' that, I'm blow'd if you haven't made one SMALLER than t' other! What a hass you must be, to be sure!' THE INCENSED COCKNEY.