claymore, ready to fight for his person or follow his chief to the field. One of the best, and the only genuine martial song in the “Oranaiche,” is the first in the volume, _Buaidh leis na Seoid_, by Alexander Macgregor, schoolmaster at Dull. It contains sixteen stanzas of four lines of twelve syllables in length, and having a chorus takes a long time to sing it; but the martial enthusiasm it breathes, along with many suggestive historical references, are such that audiences sit frequently spellbound till the whole piece is rehearsed. Of the humorous pieces in the volume mention may be made of _The Dun Horse_, _The Minister and the Bailie_, and _The Advent of an Escaped Irish Balloon on the shore of one of the Hebrides_. The author of the last-mentioned represents the whole island as in commotion when the monster approached the shore—old men and old women taking for granted that this could be no less a personage than the devil himself, who came at last to claim his own. There are upwards of fifty names of composers in the “Oranaiche,” many of whom are still living, and who are not known on the pages of another book. With this fact before us surely it cannot be affirmed that the race of bards is gone. I was once present at a meeting of a Highland Association in Glasgow, where I was informed there were no less than six bards, authors of published, well-known songs. It is difficult to conceive how so many of the irritable genius could work in harmony or dwell together in unity and in poetic brotherhood. Among the fifty above-mentioned occur the following less known Celtic names:—Lady D’Olyly D. Orr, MacMurchie, MacPhail, Macroy, MacLugas, MacAffer, Wilkinson, etc. etc. Let us now glance at some of the best-known songs. _Gu ma Slan a chi Mi_, the composition of an Ullapool sailor, the air of which is very pretty, is a highly popular song. I have tried to render some verses of it thus:— Full happy may I see thee, My faithful auburn maid! Sweet girl with flowing tresses In pretty smiles arrayed. My soul was oft-uplifted By words thy lips have said; And oft by strains of gladness My fluttering heart allayed. This night to me how dreary Upon the ocean tide! My slumber is full cheerless— To thee my fancies glide. Without thee here I sorrow, My thoughts are at thy side; I pine away in anguish Till thou become my bride. Warm eyes are thine like berries, With lashes sweetly lined; Fresh cheeks are thine like rowans, In loveliness enshrined. My heart is filled with fondness For one so true and kind; And ever since I left thee, The days like years I find.