of
Scandinavia. To the same period we are disposed to assign the "Song of
the Owl," though it has been regarded by a respectable authority[10] as
of modern origin. Of a portion of this celebrated composition we subjoin
a metrical translation from the pen of Mr William Sinclair.

The Bard, expelled from the dwellings of men by
plunderers according to one account, by a discontented
helpmate according to another, is placed in a lone
out-house, where he meets an owl which he supposes
himself to engage in an interchange of sentiment
respecting the olden time:--

HUNTER.

O wailing owl of Strona's vale!
We wonder not thy night's repose
Is mournful, when with Donegal
In distant years thou first arose:
O lonely bird! we wonder not,
For time the strongest heart can bow,
That thou should'st heave a mournful note,
Or that thy sp'rit is heavy now!

OWL.

Thou truly sayest I lone abide,
I lived with yonder ancient oak,
Whose spreading roots strike deep and wide
Amidst the moss beside the rock;
And long, long years have gone at last,
And thousand moons have o'er me stole,
And many a race before me past,
Still I am Strona's lonely owl!

HUNTER.

Now, since old age has come o'er thee,
Confess, as to a priest, thy ways;
And fearless tell thou unto me
The glorious tales of bygone days.

OWL.

Rapine and falsehood ne'er I knew,
Nor grave nor temples e'er have torn,
My youthful mate still found me true--
Guiltless am I although forlorn!
I 've seen brave Britto's son, the wild,
The powerful champion, Fergus, too,
Gray-haired Foradden, Strona's child--
These were the heroes great and true!

HUNTER.

Thou hast well began, but tell to me,
And say what further hast thou known!
E'er Donegal abode with thee,
In the Fersaid these all were gone!

OWL.

Great Alexander of the spears,
The mightiest chief of Albyn's race,
Oft have I heard his voice in cheers
From the green hill-side speed the chase;
I saw him after Angus brave--
Nor less a noble warrior he--
Fersaid his home, his work he gave
Unto the Mill of Altavaich.

HUNTER.

From wild Lochaber, then, the sword
With war's dread inroads swept apace;
Where, gloomy-brow'd and ancient bird,
Was then thy secret hidin