catching it on its descent, and running with it to the child. Here is your ball for you, my poor little dear!' And he was smiling to her with tears in his eyes, when the boy rushed at her, and inflicted a sharp blow on her shoulder. He was about to bestow another on her face, when Rachel interposed herself between them; and, at the same time, the shopwoman, a powerful matron, who had witnessed the affray, issued from the door, and gave the boy such a blow on his back as sent him reeling into the shop; then, lifting the child in her arms, she turned to Mary-It was very kind of you, Miss, to give him his ball; but I am afraid Tom has hurt you, and I am ashamed of him.'

I am not hurt at all, thank you,' said Mary, as she walked away; but Rachel rebuked her for meddling with what she had nothing to do, and said, if she left her on the street to do such a thing again, she would tell her mamma.

On reaching the toy-shop, Mary stood to look again at the wax doll in the window; and she told Rachel that she liked it more than ever, for now she saw a likeness in its face to her dear friend Fanny Wallace; and she ventured to suggest that, if Rachel had a shilling of her own in her pocket, she might just go into the shop and buy it at once, and she would pay her back again the first time she got money.

'No, no, Miss Mary; you told me your mamma refused to buy it for you, and you cannot suppose I Fold give you anything she has refused.'

Oh very well, Rachel; I suppose you are quite right; but mind you are are not to tell mamma what I was saying.'

You should never say anything you would not wish your mamma to hear, Miss Mary; but it would not be worth while repeating what you have said, unless she happens to ask me.

Oh then, I am not afraid; for she will never think of asking such a thing.'

Indeed, it is not very likely,' said Rachel, dryly. On reaching home, Willie came running out to meet them.

I am very glad you are come back, Mary, for I have been wearying for you so much; what a long time Miss Weston has kept you at school; I am sure you must be very tired.'

No, no, Willie; not in the least. School is the most delightful place I was ever in; and I only wish you had been with me, you would have enjoyed yourzelf so much! I am very sorry you are a boy, and that you cannot go to a girls' school; but never mind, Willie, dear, you are but a little fellow-only seven years old and so quiet and gentle that I daresay Miss Weston will let you come with me, although you are a boy.'

After their early dinner, when Rachel took them out to walk, Mary chatted away incessantly of all that had come under her observation at Miss Weston's. Dr. Irving's visit, the teachers and their classes, and, above all, her dear friend Fanny Wallace; and, at a later hour, when admitted to the dinner-table with her papa and mamma, where she was accustomed to observe a becoming silence, she continued to enlarge on the variety of tasks she had accomplished at school, until her papa reproved her for talking so much about herself, and, as soon as dinner was over, reminded her that, as she had so many things to do at school, she would better go and prepare for next day. When the children went up stairs, they found a young lady waiting for them in the school-room, who had been engaged by Mrs. Gordon to come for an hour or two in the afternoon, and give Willie his English lessons; and, as she was a good musician, to

superintend Mary's practice, and assist her in preparing her lessons for school.

Miss Elliot was the daughter of an carly and intimate friend of Mrs. Gordon's, who, since her husband's death, from a long succession of adverse circumstances, had been reduced to great pecuniary difficulties, besides having now become a constant sufferer from declining health.

Miss Elliot was quite aware that Mrs. Gordon's kind sympathy had led to her engagement, and sincerely desired to be of use to her pupils. She was but a young teacher, having only attained her seventeenth year; but her countenance and manners were very pleasing, and Mary was at once prepossessed in her favour. Miss Elliot,' said she, after you have finished Willie's lesson, I wish you would stay and take tea with us, and spend the evening.'

'You are very kind, Miss Mary; but your mamma has only engaged me to remain for two hours, and the time is nearly expired.'

'Oh, but I know mamma would like you to stay to tea, and I shall go down stairs and tell Thomas to place a cup and saucer for you;' and away she went. Stop, stop,' said Miss Elliot; I cannot stay, and you must not interrupt me by talking in this way, for you are preventing me from teaching your little

brother.

Mary said no more, but as soon as she saw Miss Elliot's attention occupied with Willie's lesson, she quietly seized her cloak and bonnet, which were hanging near the door, and slipping into the next room, concealed them under a table; then returning quickly, seated herself so that she might watch the result of the trick she had played. Just as Willie's lesson was finished, the tea bell sounded; and when Miss Elliot rose and looked round the room for her cloak and bonnet, wondering where they could be, Mary clapped her hands, laughing noisily, and clasping her round the waist, held her fast.

Come away down to tea with us,' she said; 'you think you will get away, but you cannot. I shall not allow you to go. Willie, come and help me to hold her.'

Miss Elliot disengaged herself quickly, and looked displeased.

"Miss Gordon,' she said, 'your behaviour is really very disrespectful, and unless you bring my cloak and bonnet immediately, I shall ring the bell for your mamma.'

Mary looked a little alarmed, for she saw she was in earnest, and she was moving towards the door, when Miss Elliot recalled her.

'I feel sorry to part with you in displeasure,' she said; but I am sure that if you knew that I have to go home as quickly as possible to make tea for my own mamma, who is sick and has no one to help her but me, you would not think of detaining me.'

'No, indeed, I would not, if I had only known; and now I shall help you to go away.'

She ran into the next room, and returning with the cloak and bonnet, assisted her to put them on, and then running before her to the hall door, opened it for her, and wished her goodbye.

After tea, the children were allowed to remain in the drawing-room for some time and occupy themselves with amusements suited to their age; and so great was Mary's enjoyment of this privilege, and having the society of her papa and mamma, besides that of Willie, that when evening worship was over, and Rachel came to put the children to bed, she begged to remain a little longer, and said the day had been far too short-she was so happy. (To be continued.)

POPULAR SONGS OF THE HIGHLANDS.

No. XII.

A POEM called 'Miann a Bhaird Aosda,' or 'The Aged Bard's Wish,' is supposed to be one of the oldest in the Gaelic language subsequent to the Ossianic era. It is said to be older than the conversion of the Caledonians to Christianity. I am not aware, however, that there are any other grounds than the internal evidence on which this very remote antiquity is claimed for the poem. Judging from its contentsits train of thought and its tone of sentiment-there is certainly no reason to suppose that its author was acquainted with any of the doctrines of Christianity; but, on the contrary, every reason to think that he was not that is, of course, granting it was really an old heathen bard, and not some one assuming such a character, who composed the verses. In the closing lines, as will be seen, the singer wishes his harp, his shell, and the shield that defended his forefathers in battle, to be laid in the grave by his side; and he speaks of his soul floating in its mist, on the breeze of the ocean, to Flath-innis-the Heroes' Isle-where Ossian and Daol reposed and slept in the house of the Bards on Ar-ven. All this is certainly quite heathenish. But all this could easily be done by a bard who lived all his life among Christian Caledonians, and merely took on himself, for the occasion, the person of an imaginary predecessor.

It is difficult to identify the locality of the poem. Mrs. Grant of Laggan says it was composed in Skye. But the editor of the 'Beauties of Gaelic Poetry' thinks "The poem itself seems to furnish some evidence, that at least the scene of it is laid in Lochaber. Treig is mentioned as having afforded drink to the hunters. Now, Loch-Treig is in the braes of Lochaber. We know of no mountain which is now called Ben-Ard or Scur-eilt. Perhaps Ben-Ard is another name for BenNevis. The great waterfall mentioned near the end of the poem may have been Eas-bhà, near KinlochLeven, in Lochaber.'-Mackenzie's Beauties of Gaelic Poetry, page 14.

Like almost all reflective poetry which extends to any length, the 'Aged Bard's Wish' is sometimes a little obscure. It is not always very easy to trace the connection of one train of thought with another, nor is it always very obvious what the old man is turning his mind to at all. The objects of his thought, and the terms in which he was in the habit of referring to them, were both so familiar to himself that he, like other poets of his class, seems never to have suspected they might be less intimately known to his readers. The Old Bard's Wish,' then, although a fine poem upon the whole, and very much admired in the original, does not, perhaps, bear translation so well as some others.

THE AGED BARD'S WISH. Oh, place me by the little brook, Of gently wandering pace and slow, And lay my head near some green nook That kindly shades the sunny glow.

At ease upon the grass I'll rest

Of the balm-breathing flowery brae;
My foot by the warm wave caress'd

That winds throughout the plain away.
There the pale primrose let me see,
There the small daisy close at hand,
And every flower so dear to me
For grateful hue or odour bland.
About thy lofty banks, my gien,

Be bending boughs and blooming sprays,
Where small birds sing from bush and fen
To aged cliffs their amorous lays.
Break rolling o'er the ivied rock
The new-born spring with heavy moan,
And let the answering echo mock
Its crowding surges' tuneful tone.
And let each hill and mountain steep
Return me back a joyous sound,
When thousand herds with lowings deep
From east and west will murmur round.
Let frisking calves before me play
By spreading hill or streamlet pure,
But the tired kid his head shall lay
Upon my breast and sleep secure.
Then, flowing on the breeze's wing,

Come the soft plainings of the lamb,
And let the mellowing distance bring
The answer of its bleating dam.
Oft let the hunter's step go by,

His whizzing javelins let me hear;
And to my cheek youth's blood will fly
When comes the chase with tumult near.
New marrow to my bones 'twill bring

To hear the string, the horn, the hound;
When loud, 'The stag is down,' they sing,
I'll leap to hear the darling sound.
My dog, I'll see him in that mood
Who late and early follow'd me,
And O our dear hilly solitude

And crags that heard my bugle's glee.
And I shall see the welcome cave,

That saved us from the darkening night:
Its flickering flame shall wane and wave-
Its quaichs once more shall give delight.
The sweet deer-flesh we'll roast it well;
Treig's singing waves our thirst allay;
Though mountains roar and ghosts should yell,
We'll calmly rest us there till day.
Then high Ben-Aird his form will rear-
Chief of a thousand hills is he-
His locks, where dream the antler'd deer,
His head, where sleep the clouds, we'll see.

Sgor-eilt looks o'er the valley's brow,
Whence first the cuckoo's music flows;
The hill where thousand fir trees grow,
And green herbs for the elks and roes.
The young ducks cheerily skim the pool,
Round which the fir trees wave their head,
And toss their green arms beautiful,

Above the ripening rowans red.

With snowy breast the swan comes nigh,
And crests the waves with graceful pride;
Or, raising up her wings on high,
Amid the clouds she'll lightly glide.

Oft doth she journey o'er the sea

To lands where breaks the cold white spray,

Where sail or mast shall never be,

Nor oaken prow shall cleave its way.

Come to the brakes and mountain caves

Thy mouth full of love's plaintive sighs

O swan! from the land of the waves,
And sing me to rest from the skies.

Oh rise, with thy mild and sweet song!
Tell thy piteous tale from on high,
The echo will spread it along,

And send thy grief mournfully by.

Raise thy wing o'er the ocean's hound,

Grasp its speed from the strong wind above,
For sweet to my ear comes the sound

From thy much pain'd heart of sad love.
Whence do the wandering breezes roam,*
That waft us thus thy grief and care,
O youth! who went so far from home,
And left my hoary head so bare!

Are thine eyes tearful still, young maid,
So white of hand, so fair and wise?
Peace rest with him that ne'er will fade,
Who from his strait bed may not rise!
O winds! tell me, whose eyes have fail'd,
The sighing reeds where now they grow,
Past which the trouts have often sail'd

On wings that never felt you blow.
Oh raise me! raise me with strong arm!
Beneath a new shade let me lie;
The sun is riding high and warm,

Let the green branches shield my eye.
Then wilt thou come, O vision mild!
That wand'rest 'mid the stars of night;
And in thy music sweet and wild
Thou'lt bring me thoughts of past delight.
Oh see, my soul! yon maiden fair

Beneath the oak-tree, king of groves!
Her hand amid her golden hair-

Her soft mild eye on him she loves.
She silent while he plays and sings—
Her beating heart swims in the song!
From eye to eye his way Love wings,

Who melts the deer their hills among.
Now stops the strain, and her soft side
Is growing to her lover's breast,
And her fresh lips, the rose-tree's pride,
To his are long and longer press'd.
May joy attend you both for aye

Who wake my long-lost joy once more;
But on thy soul, thou fair-hair'd May,
My warmest, dearest blessings pour!
Oh dream of bliss! and art thou gone?
Return, return one moment still!
You hear me not; and I'm alone.
Then, fare-you-well each long-loved hill!
Farewell, O ye youths in your prime!
Farewell, lovely maiden, to thee!

I see not your bright summer time--
'Tis winter forever with me!
Not far from the waterfall's swell
That moans round its gray rock afar,
Let me lie with my harp and shell,

And forefathers' shield in wild war.

* At this place Mrs. Grant of Laggan-who has given a translation of the Old Bard's Wish' among her poems, published in 1803 makes the following remark:-'As there is very little frost or snow in the islands, great numbers of swans come there from Norway in the beginning of winter. Some stay to hatch, but they mostly go northward in summer. This furnishes the bard with the fine image, very strongly expressed in the original, of the north wind bearing towards him the moan of the departed; upon which he inquires of the swan from what cold country that well-known voice came. This affords him a pretence for digressing."

And come o'er the sea as a friend,

Thou mild-moving zephyr and slow, Raise my mist on thy wings, and wend To the isle where the heroes go!

Where the heroes go-where they lie

And sleep sound without music's tone,Hall of Ossian and Dail! open-fly

The night comes, and the bard is gone!

But ere it comes-ere my mist wings its way To Arven, the house of the bards for ayeWith harp and shell for the road let me play; Then farewell to the harp-the shell-the lay! The measure is changed in the last verse of the original, as above.

'Suiré Oisein, or Ossian's Wooing,' is one of those old and popular bits of Highland poetry which, after having been sung for many generations, or many centuries perhaps, in ten thousand huts and houses, are still well remembered and repeated by people who never read them in a book. It and the 'Lay of Diarmad,' and the Death of Oscar,' and the 'Banners of the Fingalians,' and even the 'Address to the Sun,' are, to this day, found among old people who learned them from their fathers, who had again got them from theirs, and so on. The legitimate traditionary linenge of every one of these pieces can even yet be traced back with ease for at least a hundred years, in a good number of Highland cottages where heroic poetry is never seen in print.

,

In the middle of last century, and before Macpherson published his far-famed work, Ossian and EvirAlin' was one of the most popular of Gaelic ballads, as may be seen by a reference to the correspondence printed by the Highland Society in their report on Ossian.' It is also found in all the collections of Gaelic poetry. The different versions of it all agree in their essential features. The age of the ballad it would not be easy to determine. It is probably one of the oldest of all the Ossianic fragments.

*The paradise of the ancient Celts, Flath-innis, or the Heroes Isle-a word now appropriated to a sacred use-was supposed to lie in the Western Ocean. There was another place called Eilean na-h-Oigé, or the Island of Youth, which is still frequently spoken of in Highland tales. I once heard a long story teld in prose in which it made a considerable figure. It differed, however, from the above, or at any rate did not accord with the old bard's idea of Flath-innis. For there were not only an uninterrupted felicity and unfading youth enjoyed in Eilean anh-Oigé, but there were also activity and consciousness-not sleep. Neither was it a place for disembodied spirits merely. The story I speak of represented a man having been carried thither by a fairy wife whom he had married, and with whom he had lived for some years in the world. He was a middle-aged man when he was carried off, but his youth was renewed in even more than its early bloom whenever he set foot on the island. He stayed there, with the most perfect enjoyment, for a few weeks, as appeared to him. Then he expressed a wish to go back and see another wife and family whom he had left behind him in his own home. His wish was complied with, after he had promised his fairy wife to return with her whenever his curiosity was gratified. He was carried back as he had been at first carried way, in the shape of a swan, his fairy wife accompanying him. He was set down on his own old farm; but as soon as he touched the soil he became extremely aged and withered-looking-'a mere fistful of a man,' the narrator said. His fairy wife then left him for a short time, and he wandered about, exciting a great deal of curiosity in all who saw him, but knowing nobody, and even noticing changes in the very localities he had been so familiar with, as he had thought, about a year before. At last some people that were working in a field near by gathered about him. To them he told his story; and one of them recollected having heard his grandfather speaking of a great farmer to whom that place once belonged, and who had suddenly disappeared one day, many many years ago, no one knew whither. A little after this, the old man's fairy wife returned, and carried him off, in the shape of a swan. He was never more seen in the world at all. So much for Eilean anh-Oigé.

OSSIAN AND EVIR ALIN.

A POET'S WOOING LONG AGO.

Who is this friend that would soothe my grief
Who comes my age to cheer?

I know that light step and that gentle approach→
It is thou, my daughter dear!

Daughter! a time was when I, now so weak,

Could speed in the wild roe's flight;

When I, now so blind, could the beacon descry
Far off in the dim dark night.

The time has been when with sounding step

Away with the chieftains I'd wend;

Though this night thou must see me so lonely and sad,
Without father, son, or friend.

My son! O my hero how mournful the tale
Which Cona's slow wave tells of thee!
And Fingal and Fillan are all pass'd away;
Not one of the leaders I see.

Alas! and my sight too has faded,

Nought around I descry or above;

Gone is the hue of my youth-all is gone;
But the grave cannot alter my love.

White-handed maiden! this night though you see me
Old and forlorn in this place,
Renown'd have I been as a hero

In my youth, with the bloom on my face;
On that day when soft-hair'd Evir-Alin,
White-arm'd maiden follow'd me,
Daughter of Branno of the silver beakers,
Of many loved, herself of love still free.

Sons of kings and sons of nobles,

She refused them great or small;
Cormac woo'd her, gloomy chieftain,
But him she hated worst of all.
Her I resolved to win, for I loved her
With pure heart and steadfast truth;
And with twelve of Fingal's chiefs I went;
We strode in the strength of youth.

We came to the dark lake of Lego;
There a noble chief came to meet

And conduct us with honour to Branno-
With honour and welcomings sweet.

Me he saluted-the twelve youths he hail'd;
We sat with Branno at the feast;
But ere the evening pass'd away,
Ere yet the mirth had ceased,

Branno inquired, 'What is your purpose?
What would you have of me?'

And Cailta said, 'We seek thy daughter,

Her would we have of thee.'

Then Branno said, 'But which of you would have her?!

'Fingal's son,' said Cailta; 'this is he.'

'Mighty hero of the wide ship havens,

Happy is the maid gets thee.

'So high the place, O Ossian!

Do men's tongues to thee assign,

If I twelve daughters had,' said Branno,
'The best of them should be thine.'

Then they open'd the choice and spare chamber,
That was shielded with down from the cold;
The posts of its doors were of polish'd bone,
And the leaves were of good yellow gold.

Soon as generous Evir-Alin

Saw Ossian, Fingal's son,

The love of her youth by the hero,

By me, young maid, was won.

Then we left the dark lake of Lego,
And homeward took our way;

But Cormac, fierce Cormac, waylaid us,
Intent on the furious fray.

Eight heroes Cormac had with him,
And their men behind them stood;
The hillside flamed with their armour.
Their spears were raised like a wood.
Eight heroes with Cormac the stately,
Of the Firbolgs the best at need;
MacColla and Durra of wounds, and Tago,

And Toscar's son good to lead;
Fresdal the dangerous son of the king,

And Dairo joyful and bland;
With Dail in straits hardy and good,

He had Cormac's flag in his hand.
Eight came with Ossian the lofty,
All equal to shield him in war;
Mulla and Skeno's son the generous,
True Skellachie known near and far.
Fillan and Cairdal the rash were there,

And the black son of Revi fierce and wight;

And Toscar placed on the western flank

March'd with my standard to fight.

Toscar and Dail met face to face;

Fierce was their strife and long,

Like the winds that rush forth on the ocean
When the waves are heavy and strong.

Toscar remember'd his little knife,

'Twas a weapon he loved to hold;

Nine wounds he gave to Dail, and then

The foe before us we roll'd.

But Cormac fiercely roused them, and look'd
Like the hammer a strong hand wields;

While he shouted and roar'd, and rush'd through the fight,

And struck on our helms and shields,

Five times he dash'd on my buckler;

Five times I hurl'd him back,

Ere I struck him down on the greensward,
Cormac in battle not slack.

I swept the head from his shoulders,
And held it up in my hand;

His troops then fled, and we came with joy
To Fingal's mountain land.

Whoe'er had told me on that day,

I should be thus weak to-night,
Firm must his heart have been, and strong

His arm in the wild and desperate fight.

'So Ossian won his Genevieve-his bright and beauteous bride.' This is one of the very few tales which that old poet, prince, and warrior, is represented telling of himself. He certainly cannot be accused of being too much his own hero. This little ballad is decidedly Homeric. The feasting and the fighting are both quite in the spirit of the Greek. The manners are very ancient. The mode in which the wooing was conducted; in which the welcome was given; in which the business of the guests was asked and stated; in which Cormac's jealousy and wish for revenge were shown; the numbering of the heroes, with their epithets on each side; the combat between Toscar and Dail, and between Cormac and Ossian; and the description of the spare chamber, thatched with the down of birds, with the posts of its doors of polished bone and the leaves of gold; all these things will remind us again and again of Homer. Indeed this may be considered altogether a very interesting as well as a very old and venerable fragment.

THOMAS PATTISON.

The right of translation reserved by the Authors. Contributions addressed to the Editor will receive attention; but, as a general rule, he cannot undertake to return MSS. considered unsuitable.

Edited, Printed, and Published by JAMES HEDDERWICK, 13 Red Lion Court, Fleet-Street, LONDON, E.C.; and 32 St. Enoch-Square, GLASGOW. Sold by all Booksellers.