feelings
of hospitality.

THE SONG OF THE KILT.

My darling is the philabeg,
With scarlet hosen for the leg,
And the spotted curtal coat so trig,
And the head blue-bonneted.

The wimpled kilt be mine to wear,
Confusion take the breechen gear,
My limbs be fetterless and bare,
And not like Saxon donnot-led.[16]

Oh, well I love the _eididh_[17] free,
When it sends me bounding on the lea,
Or up the brae so merrily,
There's ne'er a darg that wonnet speed.

Give me the plaid, and on the hill
I 'll watch my turn, a se'ennight's spell,
And not a shiver from the chill
Shall pierce my trusty coverlet.

And for the tartan's lively flame,
In glen or clachan 'tis the same,
Alike it pleases lass and dame--
Unmatched its glories ever yet.

Be mine in Highland graith array'd,
With weapon trim the glens to tread,
And rise a stag of foremost head,
Then let him tent my culiver.

And when I marshal to the feast,
With deer-skin belt around my waist,
And in its fold a dirk embraced,
Then Roland match shall Oliver.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] Hen-pecked (Sc.), from _donned_, silly woman.

[17] Highland garb.

JOHN CAMPBELL.

John Campbell (Ian Ban), overseer on the estate of Shirvain, Argyleshire,
was born about the year 1705, in the parish of Glassary, in the same
county. He was entirely uneducated in youth, and never attained any
knowledge of the English language. Becoming intimately acquainted with
the Scriptures in his vernacular language, he paraphrased many passages
in harmonious verse; but, with the exception of fifteen hymns or sacred
lays which were recovered from his recitation by the poet Duncan
Kennedy, the whole have perished. The hymns of John Campbell retain much
popularity among the Gael.

THE STORM BLAST.

Oh, say not 'tis the March wind! 'tis a fiercer blast that drives
The clouds along the heavens, 'tis a feller sweep that rives
The image of the sun from man; a scowling tempest hurls
Our world into a chaos, and still it whirls and whirls.
It is the Boreal blast of sin, else all were meek and calm,
And Creation would be singing still its old primeval psalm.
Woe for the leaf of human life! it flutters in the sere,
And what avails its dance in air, with dust and down-come near?
That airy dance,