“There waves a standard o’er the brae,
    There gleams a highland sword;
  Is not yon form the Stewart, say,—­
    Yon, Scotland’s Martial Lord? 
  Douglas, with Arran’s stranger chief,
    And Moray’s earl, are there;
  Whilst drops of blood, for tears of grief,
    The coming strife declare. 
  Oh! red th’ autumnal heath-bells blow
    Within thy vale, Strathearne;
  But redder far, ere long, shall glow
    The flowers of Bannockburn!

  “Alas! for Edward’s warrior pride,
    For England’s warrior fame;
  Alas! that e’er from Thames’ fair side
    Her gallant lances came! 
  Lo! where De Bohun smiles in scorn,—­
    The Bruce, the Bruce is near! 
  Rash earl, no more thy hunter horn
    Shall Malvern’s blue hills hear! 
  Back, Argentine, and thou, De Clare,
    To Severn’s banks return
  Health smiles in rural beauty there,—­
    Death lours o’er Bannockburn!

  “Up, up, De Valence, dream no more
    Of Mothven’s victor fight—­
  Thy bark is on a stormier shore,
    No star is thine to-night. 
  And thou, De Burgh, from Erin’s isle,
    Whom Eth O’Connor leads,
  Love’s tear shall soon usurp his smile
    In Ulster’s emerald meads. 
  But oh! what tears will Cambria shed
    When she the tale shall learn—­
  For Forth’s full tide shall flow blood red,
    Ere long, from Bannockburn!

  “But not alone shall Southron vale
    Lament that day of woe—­
  Grief’s sigh shall soothe each ruder gale
    Where Scotia’s waters flow. 
  From Corra Linn, where roars the Clyde,
    To Dornoch’s ocean bay—­
  From Tweed, that rolls a neutral tide,
    To lonely Colinsay:—­
  But see, the stars wax faint and few,
    Death’s frown is dark and stern—­
  But darker soon shall rise to view
    Yon field of Bannockburn!”

* * * * *

RIVER MELODIES.

Between Pittsburgh and Shawneetown, whilst “gliding merrily down the Ohio” in a keel-boat, “navigated by eight or ten of those half-horse and half-alligator gentry commonly called Ohio boatmen,” Judge Hall was lulled to sweet sleep, as the rowers were “tugging at the oar,” timing their strokes to the cadence:—­

“Some rows up, but we rows down,
All the way to Shawnee town: 
Pull away—­pull away.”

* * * * *

REAL DISCONTENT.

The following anecdote is related of Robert de Insula, or Halieland, a man of low birth, and one of the bishops of Durham:—­Having given his mother an establishment suitable to his own rank, and asking her once, when he went to see her, how she fared, she answered, “Never worse!”—­“What troubles thee?” said the bishop; “hast thou not men and women enough to attend thee?”—­“Yea,” quoth the old woman, “and more than enough!  I say to one—­go, and he runs; to another—­come