the kilted Highlander
As from Egypt's battles come--
Westlander and Norlander,
Eager for the sight of home.

Seven years orphan'd of their fathers,
Shelterless and sad no more,
Quite a little army gathers,
Shouting welcomes from the shore.

All the echoes are in motion,
All the sheilings ring with glee,
Since, of peace, the paths of ocean
Give the news a passage free.

The birds the dash of oars was scaring--
Hush'd their note, but soon they raise,
To their wonted branch repairing,
Sweetest numbers on the sprays.

Seem the woods to dance a measure,
Nodding as the notes inspire--
And their branches, as with pleasure,
Add their music to the choir.

Of the streamlet, every murmur
Sweetly swells the song of peace,
Chanting, with each vocal charmer,
Joys that bloom and wars that cease.

ALLAN M'DOUGALL.

Allan M'Dougall was born about the year 1750, in the district of
Glencoe, Argyleshire. While employed as a tailor's apprentice, he had
the misfortune to lose his eyesight; he afterwards earned his
subsistence as a violinist. About the year 1790 he removed to
Inverlochy, in the vicinity of Fort-William. Composing verses in the
vernacular Gaelic, he contrived, by vending them, to add considerably to
his finances. In preparing for publication a small volume of poetry, he
was aided by the poet Evan Maclachlan,[15] who then was employed in the
vicinity as a tutor. Latterly, M'Dougall became family bard to Colonel
Ronaldson Macdonell of Glengarry, who provided for him on his estate.
His death took place in 1829. Shortly before this event, he republished
his volume, adding several of his later compositions. His poetry is
popular in the Highlands.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] See Minstrel, Vol. iv. p. 279.

THE SONG OF THE CARLINE.

O hi, O hu, she 's sad for scolding,
O hi, O hu, she 's too mad for holding,
O hi, O hu, her arms I 'm cold in,
And but a poor wittol to see.

If I go to fair, or feast, or waddin',
The crone's in the sulks, for she 'd fain be gaddin',
A wink to the girls sets her soul a-maddin',
She 's a shame and sorrow to me.
If I stop at the hostel to buy me a gill,
Or with a good fellow a moment sit still,
Her fist it is clench'd, and is ready to kill,
And the talk of the clachan are we.