Part 11
After dead centuries, Neglect, derision, scorn, And secular miseries, At last our Cymric race again is born, Opens again its heavy sleep-worn eyes, And fronts a brighter morn. Shall then our souls forget, Dazzled by visions of our Wales to Be, The Wales that Was, the Wales undying yet, The old heroic Cymric chivalry? Nay! one we are, indeed, With that dim Britain of our distant sires; Still the same love the patriot’s bosom fires; With the same wounds our loyal spirits bleed; The heroes of the past are living still By each sequestered vale, and cloud-compelling hill.
Dear heart that wast so strong To guide the storm of battle year by year, Last of our Cymric Princes! dauntless King! Whose brave soul knew not fear! Thou from Eryri’s summits, swooping down Like some swift eagle, o’er the affrighted town And frowning Norman castles hovering, Onward didst bear the flag of Victory; And oft the proud invader dravest back In ruin from thy country’s bounds, and far Didst roll from her the refluent wave of war, Till, ’neath the swelling flood, The low fat Lloegrian plains were sunk in blood.
I see thee when thy lonely widowed heart Grew weary of its pain, In one last desperate onset vain Hurl thyself on thy country’s deadly foes; From north to south the swift rebellion sped, The castles fell, the land arose; Wales reared once more her weary war-worn head Through triumph and defeat, a chequered sum, Till the sure end should come, The traitorous ambush, and the murderous spear; Still ’mid the cloistered glories of Cwmhir, I hear the chants sung for the kingly dead, While Cambria mourned thy dear dishonoured head.
Strong son of Wales! thy fate Not without tears, our Cymric memories keep; Our faithful, unforgetting natures weep The ancestral fallen Great. Not with the stalwart arm After our age-long peace, We serve her now, nor keen uplifted sword, But with the written or the spoken word Would fain her power increase; The Light we strive to spread Is Knowledge, and its power Comes not from captured town or leaguered tower. A closer brotherhood Unites the Cymric and the Anglian blood, Yet separate, side by side they dwell, not one, Distinct till Time be done.
But we who in that peaceful victory Our faith, our hope repose, With grateful hearts, Llewelyn, think of thee Who fought’st our country’s foes; Whose generous hand was open to reward The dauntless patriot bard, Who loved’st the arts of peace, yet knew’st through life Only incessant strife; Who ne’er like old Iorwerth’s happier son, Didst rest from battles won, But strovest for us still, and not in vain; Since from that ancient pain, After six centuries, Wales of thy love Feels through her veins new patriot currents move, And from thy ashes, like the Phœnix springs Skyward on soaring wings, And fronts, grown stronger for the days that were, Whatever Fortune, ’neath God’s infinite air, Fate and the Years prepare!
_Sir Lewis Morris._
JONES
CXXV
RHUDDLAN MARSH
Arvon’s heights hide the bright sun from our gazing, Night’s dark pall enshrouds all in its embracing; Still as death--not a breath mars the deep silence, On mine ear waves roll near with soft hush’d cadence. O the start of my heart’s quick palpitating, Anger’s thrill doth me fill when meditating On the day when the fray crushed the brave Cambrian, When, through guile, pile on pile heaped Morfa Rhuddlan!
See, at once Britain’s sons’ bosoms are swelling, Each face hot with fierce thought from each heart welling; Strong arms bare through the air fierce blows are dealing, Till the foes with the blows serried are reeling! Through the day Britons pray in their great anguish,-- ‘Thou, on high, hear our cry--help us to vanquish! Hedge around the dear ground of our lov’d Britain, Speed our host, or we’re lost on Morfa Rhuddlan!’
Like a dart through my heart anguish is flowing, Hark, how loud, fierce, and proud is the foes’ crowing! But, O host, do not boast as of aught glorious, ’Twas thy swarms, not thine arms, made thee victorious! See, yon scores at their doors watching in terrors, Full of care for the fare of their lov’d warriors! Up the rocks quickly flock sire, child, and woman,-- Each heart bleeds for the deeds on Morfa Rhuddlan.
_Richard Bellis Jones._
JONES
CXXVI
LIBERTY
See, see where royal Snowdon rears Her hoary head above her peers To cry that Wales is free! O hills which guard our liberties, With outstretched arms to where you rise In all your pride, I turn my eyes And echo, ‘Wales is free!’ O’er giant Idris’ lofty seat, O’er Berwyn and Plynlimon great And hills which round them lower meet, Blow winds of liberty. And like the breezes high and strong, Which through the cloudwrack sweep along, Each dweller in this land of song Is free, is free, is free!
Never, O Freedom, let sweet sleep Over that wretch’s eyelids creep Who bears with wrong and shame. Make him to feel thy spirit high, And, like a hero, do or die, And smite the arm of tyranny, And lay its haunts aflame,-- Rather than peace which makes thee slave, Rise, Europe, rise, and draw thy glaive, Lay foul oppression in its grave No more the light to see! Then heavenward turn thy grateful gaze, And like the rolling thunder raise Thy triumph-song of joy and praise To God--that thou art free!
_Edmund Osborne Jones._
CXXVII
THE POETS OF WALES
Dear Cymru, mid thy mountains soaring high Dwells genius basking in thy quiet air, And heavenly shades, and solitude more rare, And all wrapt round with fullest harmony Of streams which fall afar. Thus pleasantly ’Neath Nature their fit foster-mother’s care, Thy children learn from infant hours to bear And work the will of God. Thy scenery So varied-wild, so strangely sweet and strong, Works on them and to music moulds their mind, Till flows their fancy in poetic rills. The voice of Nature breathes in every song; And we may read therein thy features kind, As in some tarn that nestles ’neath thy hills.
Thy fragrant breezes wander through the maze Of all their songs as through a woodland reach; Their odes drop sweetness like the ripening peach In laden orchards on late summer days. Their work is Nature’s own--not theirs the praise By culture won which midnight studies teach; Sounds the loud cataract in their sonorous speech, And strikes the keynote of their tuneful lays. As to remotest ages in the past We trace thy joyous story, more and more Bards won high honour mid thy hills and vales. So, Cymru, while this world of ours shall last, And ocean echoing beat upon thy shore, May poets never cease to sing for Wales!
_Edmund Osborne Jones._
III
SCOTLAND
RAMSAY
CXXVIII
FAREWELL TO LOCHABER
Fareweel to Lochaber, fareweel to my Jean, Where heartsome wi’ her I ha’e mony days been; For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more, We’ll maybe return to Lochaber no more. These tears that I shed, they are a’ for my dear, And no’ for the dangers attending on weir; Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore, Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Though hurricanes rage, and rise ev’ry wind, They’ll ne’er make a tempest like that in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, That’s naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me, my heart is sair pain’d; But by ease that’s inglorious no fame can be gained; And beauty and love’s the reward of the brave; And I maun deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it, I ne’er can have merit for thee; And, wanting thy favour, I’d better not be. I gae then, my lass, to win glory and fame; And if I should chance to come glorious hame, I’ll bring a heart to thee with love running o’er, And then I’ll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
_Allan Ramsay._
ELLIOT
CXXIX
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST
A LAMENT FOR FLODDEN
I’ve heard the liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, Lasses a liltin’ before dawn o’ day; But now there’s a moanin’ on ilka green loanin’, The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At buchts in the mornin’, nae blythe lads are scornin’, Lasses are lanely, and dowie, and wae; Nae daffin’, nae gabbin’, but sighin’ and sabbin’, Ilk ane lifts her laiglin and hies her away.
In har’st at the shearin’, nae youths now are jeerin’, The bandsters are runkled, and lyart and gray; At fair or at preachin’, nae wooin’, nae fleechin’,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
At e’en, in the gloamin’, nae swankies are roamin’ ’Bout stacks, ’mang the lassies at bogle to play; But each ane sits dreary, lamentin’ her dearie,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
Dool and wae for the order sent our lads to the Border! The English for ance by guile wan the day; The Flowers of the Forest, that fought aye the foremost, The prime of our land now lie cauld in the clay.
We’ll hear nae mair liltin’ at our ewe-milkin’, Women and bairns are dowie and wae; Sighin’ and moanin’ on ilka green loanin’,-- The Flowers of the Forest are a’ wede away.
_Jean Elliott._
GRANT
CXXX
THE HIGHLAND LADDIE
O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? O where, tell me where, is your Highland laddie gone? He’s gone with streaming banners, where noble deeds are done, And my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.
O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? O where, tell me where, did your Highland laddie stay? He dwelt beneath the holly trees, beside the rapid Spey, And many a blessing follow’d him, the day he went away.
O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? O what, tell me what, does your Highland laddie wear? A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war, And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star.
Suppose, ah suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound? The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye.
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland’s bonnie bounds, His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds, While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name resounds.
_Anne Macivar Grant._
BURNS
CXXXI
MY HEARTS IN THE HIGHLANDS
_My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!_
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birth-place of valour, the country of worth! Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below, Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods, Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods!
_My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart’s in the Highlands a-chasing the deer, A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe-- My heart’s in the Highlands, wherever I go!_
_Robert Burns._
CXXXII
BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN
Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has aften led, Welcome to your gory bed Or to victorie!
Now’s the day, and now’s the hour: See the front o’ battle lour, See approach proud Edward’s power-- Chains and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward’s grave? Wha sae base as be a slave?-- Let him turn, and flee!
Wha for Scotland’s King and Law Freedom’s sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand or freeman fa’, Let him follow me!
By Oppression’s woes and pains, By your sons in servile chains, We will drain our dearest veins But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low! Tyrants fall in every foe! Liberty’s in every blow! Let us do, or die!
_Robert Burns._
CXXXIII
THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? Then let the loons beware, Sir, There’s wooden walls upon our seas, And volunteers on shore, Sir! The Nith shall run to Corsincon, And Criffel sink in Solway, Ere we permit a foreign foe On British ground to rally!
O let us not, like snarling tykes, In wrangling be divided, Till, slap! come in an unco loun, And wi’ a rung decide it! Be Britain still to Britain true, Amang oursels united! For never but by British hands Maun British wrangs be righted!
The kettle o’ the Kirk and State, Perhaps a clout may fail in’t; But Deil a foreign tinkler loon Shall ever ca’ a nail in’t! Our fathers’ blude the kettle bought, And wha wad dare to spoil it, By Heav’ns! the sacrilegious dog Shall fuel be to boil it!
The wretch that wad a tyrant own, And the wretch, his true-sworn brother, Who would set the mob above the throne, May they be damned together! Who will not sing ‘God save the King,’ Shall hang as high’s the steeple; But while we sing ‘God Save the King,’ We’ll ne’er forget the People!
_Robert Burns._
CXXXIV
THEIR GROVES O’ SWEET MYRTLE
Their groves o’ sweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume! Far dearer to me yon lone glen o’ green breckan, Wi’ the burn stealing under the lang, yellow broom; Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers, Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly, unseen; For there, lightly tripping amang the white flowers, A-list’ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho’ rich is the breeze in their gay, sunny vallies, And cauld Caledonia’s blast on the wave, Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the proud palace, What are they?--the haunt of the tyrant and slave! The slave’s spicy forests and gold-bubbling fountains The brave Caledonian views wi’ disdain: He wanders as free as the winds of his mountains, Save Love’s willing fetters--the chains o’ his Jean.
_Robert Burns._
SCOTT
CXXXV
THE OUTCAST
Breathes there the man, with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne’er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned, From wandering on a foreign strand! If such there breathe, go, mark him well; From him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim; Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust, from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonour’d, and unsung.
_Sir Walter Scott._
CXXXVI
FLODDEN FIELD
By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle’s deadly swell, For still the Scots around their king, Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. Where’s now their victor waward wing, Where Huntly, and where Home?-- O, for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come, When Rowland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side, Afar, the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies, Our Caledonian pride!
But as they left the dark’ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hail’d, In headlong charge their horse assail’d; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep, That fought around their king. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spearmen still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Link’d in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O’er their thin host and wounded king. Then skilful Surrey’s sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain-waves, from wasted lands, Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their king, their lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed’s echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band, Disorder’d, through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to down and dale, To tell red Flodden’s dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, time, and song, Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife, and carnage drear, Of Flodden’s fatal field, When shiver’d was fair Scotland’s spear, And broken was her shield!
_Sir Walter Scott._
CXXXVII
GATHERING-SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK
Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons.
Come from deep glen and From mountain so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and Strong hand that bears one.
Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.
Come as the winds come when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.
Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!
_Sir Walter Scott._
CXXXVIII
OVER THE BORDER
March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale, Why the deil dinna ye march forward in order? March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale, All the Blue Bonnets are bound for the Border. Many a banner spread, Flutters above your head, Many a crest that is famous in story; Mount and make ready then, Sons of the mountain glen, Fight for the Queen and the old Scottish glory!
Come from the hills where the hirsels are grazing, Come from the glen of the buck and the roe; Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing, Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. Trumpets are sounding, War-steeds are bounding, Stand to your arms then, and march in good order, England shall many a day Tell of the bloody fray, When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border!
_Sir Walter Scott._
CXXXIX
BONNIE DUNDEE
To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke, Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
_Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!_
Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee!’
As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonnie Dundee.
With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee.
These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; ‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.’
The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: ‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there’s lords in the lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three Will cry _Hoigh!_ for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.
Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I own a usurper, I’ll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’
He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee.
_Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses, and call up the men, Come open the gates, and let me gae free, For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee!_
_Sir Walter Scott._
CXL
WAR-SONG
To horse! to horse! the standard flies, The bugles sound the call; The Gallic navy stems the seas, The voice of battle’s on the breeze, Arouse ye, one and all!
From high Dunedin’s towers we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard’s spoils surround, With Scotland’s hardy thistle crown’d; We boast the red and blue.
Though tamely crouch to Gallia’s frown, Dull Holland’s tardy train; Their ravish’d toys though Romans mourn; Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn; And, foaming, gnaw the chain;
Oh! had they mark’d the avenging call Their brethren’s murder gave, Disunion ne’er their ranks had mown, Nor patriot valour desperate grown, Sought freedom in the grave!
Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, In Freedom’s temple born, Dress our pale cheek in timid smile, To hail a master in our isle, Or brook a victor’s scorn?
No! though destruction o’er the land Come pouring as a flood, The sun, that sees our falling day, Shall mark our sabres’ deadly sway, And set that night in blood.
For gold let Gallia’s legions fight, Or plunder’s bloody gain; Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, To guard our king, to fence our law, Nor shall their edge be vain.
If ever breath of British gale Shall fan the tricolor, Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore--
Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Adieu each tender tie! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, Where charging squadrons furious ride, To conquer or to die.