to the correction of the press. (_Landor retires_.)

_North_.--He is gone! Incomparable Savage! I cannot more
effectually retaliate upon him for all his invectives against us
than by admitting his gossiping trash into the Magazine. No part of
the dialogue will be mistaken for Southey's; nor even for Porson's
inspirations from the brandy-bottle.

All the honour due to the author will be exclusively Mr. Walter
Savage Landor's; and, as it is certainly "not worth five shillings,"
no one will think it "worth borrowing or putting on."

* * * * *

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

Sound the fife, and raise the slogan--let the pibroch shake the air
With its wild triumphal music, worthy of the freight we bear;
Let the ancient hills of Scotland hear once more the battle song
Swell within their glens and valleys as the clansmen march along.
Never, from the field of combat, never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried than we bring with us to-day:
Never, since the valiant Douglas in his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart--the priceless--to our dear Redeemer's shore!
Lo! we bring with us the hero--Lo! we bring the conquering Graeme,
Crown'd as best beseems a victor from the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle whence his spirit took its flight
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons, and the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph, as we march o'er moor and lea,
Is there any here will venture to bewail our dead Dundee?
Let the widows of the traitors weep until their eyes are dim;
Wail ye may indeed for Scotland--let none dare to mourn for him!
See, above his glorious body lies the royal banner's fold--
See, his valiant blood is mingled with its crimson and its gold--
See how calm he looks and stately, like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning breaks upon the battle field.
See--O never more, my comrades! shall we see that falcon eye
Kindle with its inward lightning, as the hour of fight drew nigh;
Never shall we hear the voice that, clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for King and Country, bade us win the field or fall!
On the heights of Killiecrankie yester-morn our army lay:
Slowly rose the mist in columns from the river's broken way,
Hoarsely roar'd the swollen torrent, and the pass was wrapp'd in gloom
When the clansmen rose together from their lai