Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain, An' raised her stately form again, Whan the British lion shook his mane On the mountains of Vittoria.

Let blustering Suchet crousely crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
An' Jourdan wish his baton back
He left upon Vittoria.

If e'er they meet their worthy king,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scots piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.

Gi'e truth and honor to the Dane,
Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain,
But aye in sic a cause as Spain

Gi'e Britain a Vittoria.

The English rose was ne'er sae red, The shamrock waved whare glory led, An' the Scottish thistle reared its head In joy upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought an' many fell,
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
At the battle of Vittoria.

The Paris maids may ban them a',
Their lads are maistly wede awa',

An' cauld an' pale as wreathes o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.

Peace to the souls, then, o' the brave,
Let all their trophies for them wave,
And green be our Cadogan's grave
Upon thy fields, Vittoria.

Shout on, my boys, your glasses drain,
And fill a bumper up again,

Pledge to the leading star o' Spain,
The hero of Vittoria.

William Glen.

THE

Xerez.

THE POUNDER.

HE Christians have beleaguered the famous walls of
Xerez;

Among them are Don Alvar and Don Diego Perez,
And many other gentlemen, who, day succeeding day,
Give challenge to the Saracen and all his chivalry.

When rages the hot battle before the gates of Xerez, By trace of gore ye may explore the dauntless path of Perez ;

No knight like Don Diego, no sword like his is found

In all the host, to hew the boast of paynims to the ground.

It fell, one day, when furiously they battled on the

plain,

Diego shivered both his lance and trusty blade in twain;

The Moors that saw it shouted; for esquire none was

near,

To serve Diego at his need with falchion, mace, or

spear.

Loud, loud he blew his bugle, sore troubled was his

eye,

But by God's grace before his face there stood a tree full nigh,

An olive-tree with branches strong, close by the wall of Xerez:

"Yon goodly bough will serve, I trow," quoth Don Diego Perez.

A gnarled branch he soon did wrench down from that olive strong,

Which o'er his headpiece brandishing, he spurs among the throng:

God wot, full many a pagan must in his saddle reel! What leech may cure, what beadsman shrive, if once that weight ye feel?

But when Don Alvar saw him thus bruising down the

foe,

Quoth he, "I've seen some flail-armed man belabor barley so;

Sure, mortal mould did ne'er infold such mastery of

power:

Let's call Diego Perez the Pounder, from this hour." Spanish Ballad. Tr. J. G. Lockhart.

NOW

ROMANCE.

appears the star of Venus,

Sol's last ray the mountain gilds, While the night, in dusky mantle, Travels o'er the darkening fields. See yon Moorish warrior flying From Sidonia's open gate, Near the sunny banks of Xerez, Fierce and proud, but desolate. By the stream of Guadalete,

To that port of splendid fame, Honored by far distant ages

With Our Lady's blessed name.
He is born of lineage noble,
All his sires of high degree,
But his once-loved maid has left him,
Taunting him with poverty.
Faithless fair one! and this evening
She has pledged her recreant hand
To proud Seville's base alcalde,
Dignified with high command.
To the careless winds of heaven,

To the rocks and woods he cries;
Naught but pitying Echo hears him,
Pitying Echo still replies.
Zayde! Zayde! far more cruel

Than the wreck-absorbing wave;
Harder than the hardest mountain,
Whose old feet the waters lave;

Tell me, cruel maiden! tell me

Shall the charms that once were mine

Be devoted to another?

Wilt thou call another thine?

Wilt thou twine thy youthful tendrils
Round a proud and rugged tree,
Leaving mine all stripped and blasted;
Flowerless, fruitless, left by thee?"
He, thy choice, is poor, though wealthy,-
Him whom thou fleest rich, though poor:
Hast thou learnt than wealth of spirit
Wealth of clay to value more?
Wilt thou then Gazul abandon,

Six sweet years of love now flown,
For this treacherous Albenzayde,
For this stranger all unknown?

Thus he spoke; and straight to Xercz,
Full of madness, sped along,
And he finds the alcalde's palace
Bright with torches, gay with song.
There a thousand lamps are burning,
Thousand voices shouting there;
All is gayety and gladness,

What does this intruder here?
He his trusty steed has mounted,
To the bridegroom swift he hies,
And the crowds make way before him,
While he pays his courtesies.