man?
Wilt thou shrink from the doom thou canst shun not?
If thy course must be brief, let the proud Saxon know
That the soul of M'Crimman ne'er quail'd when a foe
Bared his blade in the land he had won not!
Where the light-footed roe leaves the wild breeze behind,
And the red heather-bloom gives its sweets to the wind,
There our broad pennon flies, and the keen steeds are prancing,
'Mid the startling war-cries, and the war-weapons glancing,
Then raise your wild slogan-cry--on to the foray!
Sons of the heather-hill, pinewood, and glen;
Shout for M'Pherson, M'Leod, and the Moray,
Till the Lomonds re-echo the challenge again!

FOOTNOTES:

[21] In Blackie's "Book of Scottish Song," this song is attributed to
the Rev. George Allan, D.D. It is also inserted among the songs of the
Ettrick Shepherd, published by the Messrs Blackie. The latter blunder is
accounted for by the fact that a copy of the song, which was sent to the
Shepherd by Mr H. S. Riddell, as a specimen of Mr Allan's poetical
talents, had been found among his papers subsequent to his decease. This
song, with the two immediately following, appeared in M'Leod's "National
Melodies," but they are here transcribed from the author's MSS.

I WILL THINK OF THEE YET.

I will think of thee yet, though afar I may be,
In the land of the stranger, deserted and lone,
Though the flowers of this earth are all wither'd to me,
And the hopes which once bloom'd in my bosom are gone,
I will think of thee yet, and the vision of night
Will oft bring thine image again to my sight,
And the tokens will be, as the dream passes by,
A sigh from the heart and a tear from the eye.

I will think of thee yet, though misfortune fall chill
O'er my path, as yon storm-cloud that lours on the lea,
And I'll deem that this life is worth cherishing still,
While I know that one heart still beats warmly for me.
Yes! Grief and Despair may encompass me round,
'Till not e'en the shadow of peace can be found;
But mine anguish will cease when my thoughts turn to you
And the wild mountain land which my infancy knew.

I will think of thee; oh! if I e'er can forget
The love that grew warm as all others grew cold,
'Twill but be when the sun of my reason hath set,
Or memory fled from her care-haunted hold;
But while life and its woes to bear on is my doom,
Shal