Oh, Gilderoy! bethought we then
So soon, so sad to part,

When first in Roslin's lovely glen
You triumph'd o'er my heart?

Your locks they glitter'd to the sheen,
Your hunter garb was trim;
And graceful was the ribbon green
That bound your manly limb!

Ah! little thought I to deplore
Those limbs in fetters bound;
Or hear, upon the scaffold floor,
The midnight hammer sound.

Ye cruel, cruel, that combined
The guiltless to pursue ;
My Gilderoy was ever kind,
He could not injure you!

A long adieu! but where shall fly
Thy widow all forlorn,

When every mean and cruel eye
Regards my woe with scorn ?

Yes! they will mock thy widow's tears,
And hate thine orphan boy;
Alas! his infant beauty wears
The form of Gilderoy.

Then will I seek the dreary mound
That wraps thy mouldering clay,
And weep and linger on the ground,
And sigh my heart away.

STANZAS

ON THE THREATENED INVASION.

1803.

OUR bosoms we 'll bare for the glorious strife,
And our oath is recorded on high,

To prevail in the cause that is dearer than life,
Or crush'd in its ruins to die!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

'Tis the home we hold sacred is laid to our trustGod bless the green Isle of the brave! Should a conqueror tread on our forefathers' dust, It would rouse the old dead from their grave! Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

In a Briton's sweet home shall a spoiler abide,

Profaning its loves and its charms?

Shall a Frenchman insult the loved fair at our

side?

To arms! oh, my Country, to arms!

Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right

hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

Shall a tyrant enslave us, my countrymen !-No!
His head to the sword shall be given-

A death-bed repentance be taught the proud foe,
And his blood be an offering to Heaven!
Then rise, fellow freemen, and stretch the right
hand,

And swear to prevail in your dear native land!

THE RITTER BANN.

THE Ritter Bann from Hungary
Came back, renown'd in arms,
But scorning jousts of chivalry,
And love and ladies' charms.

While other knights held revels, he
Was rapt in thoughts of gloom,
And in Vienna's hostelrie

Slow paced his lonely room.

There enter'd one whose face he knew,

Whose voice, he was aware,

He oft at mass had listen'd to

In the holy house of prayer.

'Twas the Abbot of St. James's monks,

A fresh and fair old man:

His reverend air arrested even
The gloomy Ritter Bann.

But seeing with him an ancient dame

Come clad in Scotch attire,

The Ritter's colour went and came,

And loud he spoke in ire:

"Ha! nurse of her that was my bane,
Name not her name to me;

I wish it blotted from my brain :
Art poor?-take alms, and flee."

"Sir Knight," the abbot interposed,

"This case your ear demands ;'

And the crone cried, with a cross enclosed In both her trembling hands,

"Remember, each his sentence waits;

And he that shall rebut

Sweet Mercy's suit, on him the gates
Of Mercy shall be shut.

You wedded, undispensed by Church,
Your cousin Jane in Spring;—
In Autumn, when you went to search
For churchman's pardoning,

Her house denounced your marriage-band,
Betroth'd her to De Grey,

And the ring you put upon her hand
Was wrench'd by force away.

Then wept your Jane upon my neck,
Crying, 'Help me, nurse, to flee

To my Howel Bann's Glamorgan hills;'
But word arrived―ah me!—