Part 12
To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; Combined by honour’s sacred tie, Our word is _Laws and Liberty_! March forward, one and all!
_Sir Walter Scott._
LEYDEN
CXLI
ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN
Green Flodden! on thy bloodstained head Descend no rain or vernal dew; But still, thou charnel of the dead, May whitening bones thy surface strew! Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale, Wild fancy feels the clasping mail; The rancour of a thousand years Glows in my breast; again I burn To see the banner’d pomp of war return, And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears.
Lo! bursting from their common tomb, The spirits of the ancient dead Dimly streak the parted gloom With awful faces, ghastly red; As once, around their martial king, They closed the death-devoted ring, With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield; In slow procession round the pile Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chants, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden Field.
What youth, of graceful form and mien, Foremost leads the spectred brave, While o’er his mantle’s folds of green His amber locks redundant wave? When slow returns the fated day, That viewed their chieftain’s long array, Wild to the harp’s deep plaintive string, The virgins raise the funeral strain, From Ord’s black mountain to the northern main, And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring!
Alas! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell! That Scottish bard should wake the string, The triumph of our foes to tell! Yet Teviot’s sons, with high disdain, Have kindled at the thrilling strain, That mourn’d their martial fathers’ bier; And at the sacred font, the priest Through ages left the master-hand unblessed, To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear.
Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain In early youth rose soft and sweet, My life-blood, through each throbbing vein, With wild tumultuous passion beat; And oft in fancied might, I trode The spear-strewn path to Fame’s abode, Encircled with a sanguine flood; And thought I heard the mingling hum, When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood.
Rude Border Chiefs, of mighty name, And iron soul, who sternly tore The blossoms from the tree of fame, And purpled deep their tints with gore, Rush from brown ruins, scarr’d with age, That frown o’er haunted Hermitage; Where, long by spells mysterious bound, They pace their round, with lifeless smile, And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile, Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground.
Shades of the dead! on Alfer’s plain Who scorned with backward step to move, But struggling ’mid the hills of slain, Against the Sacred Standard strove; Amid the lanes of war I trace Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: Where’er the surge of arms is tost, Your glittering spears, in close array, Sweep, like the spider’s filmy web, away The flower of Norman pride, and England’s victor host.
But distant fleets each warrior ghost, With surly sounds that murmur far; Such sounds were heard when Syria’s host Roll’d from the walls of proud Samàr. Around my solitary head Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, While murmur low the shadowy band-- ‘Lament no more the warrior’s doom! Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero’s tomb, Who falls, ’mid circling spears, to save his native land.’
_John Leyden._
CUNNINGHAM
CXLII
LOYALTY
It’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i’ the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The green leaf o’ loyaltie’s begun for to fa’, The bonnie white rose it is witherin’ an’ a’, But I’ll water’t wi’ the blude of usurpin’ tyrannie, An’ green it will grow in my ain countrie. For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
The great are now gane, a’ wha ventured to save; The new grass is springin’ on the tap o’ their grave: But the sun thro’ the mirk blinks blythe in my e’e, ‘I’ll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.’ For it’s hame, an’ it’s hame, hame fain wad I be, O it’s hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!
_Allan Cunningham._
ANONYMOUS
CXLIII
THE CAMPBELLS ARE COMIN’
The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho! The Campbells are comin’, O-ho! The Campbells are comin’ to bonnie Lochleven! The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho!
Upon the Lomonds I lay, I lay; Upon the Lomonds I lay; I lookit doun to bonnie Lochleven, An’ saw three perches play.
Great Argyll he goes before; He makes the cannons an’ guns to roar, Wi’ sound of trumpet, pipe, and drum; The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho!
The Campbells they are a’ in arms, Their loyal faith and truth to show, Wi’ banners rattlin’ in the wind, The Campbells are comin’, O-ho, O-ho!
_Anonymous._
GILFILLAN
CXLIV
MY AIN COUNTRIE
Oh! why left I my hame? Why did I cross the deep? Oh! why left I the land Where my forefathers sleep? I sigh for Scotia’s shore, And I gaze across the sea, But I canna get a blink O’ my ain countrie.
The palm-tree waveth high, And fair the myrtle springs; And to the Indian maid The bulbul sweetly sings. But I dinna see the broom, Wi’ its tassels on the lea; Nor hear the linties’ sang O’ my ain countrie.
Oh! here no Sabbath bell Awakes the Sabbath morn, Nor sang of reapers heard Amang the yellow corn; For the tyrant’s voice is here, And the wail o’ slaverie; But the sun o’ freedom shines In my ain countrie.
There’s a hope for every woe, And a balm for every pain; But the first joys of our heart Come never back again. There’s a track upon the deep, And a path across the sea; But for me there’s nae return To my ain countrie.
_Robert Gilfillan._
STEVENSON
CXLV
IN THE HIGHLANDS
In the Highlands, in the country places, Where the old plain men have rosy faces, And the young fair maidens Quiet eyes; Where essential silence cheers and blesses, And for ever in the hill-recesses _Her_ more lovely music Broods and dies.
O to mount again where erst I haunted; Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted; And the low green meadows Bright with sward; And when even dies, the million-tinted, And the night has come, and planets glinted, Lo, the valley hollow Lamp-bestarred!
O to dream, O to awake and wander There, and with delight to take and render, Through the trance of silence, Quiet breath; Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses, Only the mightier movement sounds and passes; Only the winds and rivers, Life and death.
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
CXLVI
EXILED
Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying, Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now, Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying, My heart remembers how!
Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places, Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor, Hills of sheep, and the homes of the silent vanished races, And winds, austere and pure:
Be it granted to me to behold you again in dying, Hills of home! and to hear again the call; Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying, And hear no more at all!
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
MUNRO
CXLVII
TO EXILES
Are you not weary in your distant places, Far, far from Scotland of the mist of storm, In stagnant airs, the sun-smite on your faces, The days so long and warm? When all around you lie the strange fields sleeping, The ghastly woods where no dear memories roam, Do not your sad hearts over seas come leaping To the Highlands and the Lowlands of your home?
Wild cries the Winter, loud through all our valleys The midnights roar, the grey noons echo back; About the scalloped coasts the eager galleys Beat for kind harbours from the horizons black; We tread the miry roads, the rain-drenched heather, We are the men, we battle, we endure! God’s pity for you, exiles, in your weather Of swooning winds, calm seas, and skies demure!
Wild cries the Winter, and we walk song-haunted Over the hills and by the thundering falls, Or where the dirge of a brave past is chaunted In dolorous dusks by immemorial walls. Though hails may beat us and the great mists blind us, And lightning rend the pine-tree on the hill, Yet are we strong, yet shall the morning find us Children of tempest all unshaken still.
We wander where the little grey towns cluster Deep in the hills or selvedging the sea, By farm-lands lone, by woods where wild-fowl muster To shelter from the day’s inclemency; And night will come, and then far through the darkling A light will shine out in the sounding glen, And it will mind us of some fond eye’s sparkling, And we’ll be happy then.
Let torrents pour, then, let the great winds rally, Snow-silence fall or lightning blast the pine, That light of home shines warmly in the valley, And, exiled son of Scotland, it is thine. Far have you wandered over seas of longing, And now you drowse, and now you well may weep, When all the recollections come a-thronging, Of this rude country where your fathers sleep.
They sleep, but still the hearth is warmly glowing While the wild Winter blusters round their land; That light of home, the wind so bitter blowing-- Look, look and listen, do you understand? Love, strength, and tempest--oh, come back and share them! Here is the cottage, here the open door; We have the hearts, although we do not bare them,-- They’re yours, and you are ours for evermore.
_Neil Munro._
JACOBITE SONGS
ANONYMOUS
CXLVIII
THE KING OVER THE WATER
Bonnie Charlie’s noo awa’ Safely o’er the friendly main; Mony a heart will break in twa, Should he ne’er come back again.
_Will ye no’ come back again? Will ye no’ come back again? Better lo’ed ye canna be-- Will ye no’ come back again?_
The hills he trod were a’ his ain, And bed beneath the birken tree; The bush that hid him on the plain, There’s none on earth can claim but he.
Sweet the laverock’s note and lang, Liltin’ wildly up the glen; But he sings nae ither sang Than ‘Will ye no come back again?’
Whene’er I hear the blackbird sing Unto the e’enin’ sinkin’ down, Or merle that makes the woods to ring, To me they hae nae ither soun’ Than--
_Will ye no come back again? Will ye no come back again? Better lo’ed ye canna be-- Will ye no come back again?_
_Anonymous._
CXLIX
WELCOME, ROYAL CHARLIE!
_Oh! he was lang o’ comin’, Lang, lang, lang o’ comin’, Oh! he was lang o’ comin! Welcome, Royal Charlie!_
When he on Moidart’s shore did stand, The friends he had within the land Came down and shook him by the hand, And welcomed Royal Charlie.
The dress that our Prince Charlie had, Was bonnet blue, and tartan plaid; And O! he was a handsome lad, A true king’s son was Charlie.
_But oh! he was lang o’ comin’, Lang, lang, lang o’ comin’, Oh! he was lang o’ comin’, Welcome, Royal Charlie!_
_Anonymous._
CL
CAM’ YE BY ATHOL?
Cam’ ye by Athol, lad wi’ the philabeg, Down by the Tummel, or banks of the Garry? Saw ye the lads wi’ their bonnets an’ white cockades, Leaving their mountains to follow Prince Charlie?
_Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou lo’ed an’ trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee? King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!_
I hae but ae son, my gallant young Donald; But if I had ten they should follow Glengarry; Health to Macdonald an’ gallant Clanronald, These are the men that will die for their Charlie!
I’ll to Lochiel an’ Appin, an’ kneel to them; Down by Lord Murray an’ Roy o’ Kildarlie; Brave Macintosh, he shall fly to the fiel’ wi’ them; These are the lads I can trust wi’ my Charlie.
Down thro’ the Lowlands, down wi’ the Whigamore, Loyal true Highlanders, down wi’ them rarely; Ronald an’ Donald drive on wi’ the braid claymore, Over the necks o’ the foes o’ Prince Charlie!
_Follow thee, follow thee, wha wadna follow thee? Lang hast thou lo’ed an’ trusted us fairly! Charlie, Charlie, wha wadna follow thee? King o’ the Highland hearts, bonnie Prince Charlie!_
_Anonymous._
CLI
LADY KEITH’S LAMENT
I may sit in my wee croo house, At the rock and the reel to toil fu’ dreary; I may think on the day that’s gane, And sigh and sab till I grow weary. I ne’er could brook, I ne’er could brook, A foreign loon to own or flatter; But I will sing a rantin’ sang, That day our king comes owre the water.
O gin I live to see the day, That I hae begg’d, and begg’d frae Heaven, I’ll fling my rock and reel away, And dance and sing frae morn till even: For there is are I winna name, That comes the reigning bike to scatter; And I’ll put on my bridal gown, That day our king comes owre the water.
I hae seen the gude auld day, The day o’ pride and chieftain glory, When royal Stuarts bare the sway, And ne’er heard tell o’ Whig nor Tory. Tho’ lyart be my locks and grey, And eild has crooked me down--what matter? I’ll dance and sing anither day, That day our king comes owre the water.
A curse on dull and drawling Whig, The whining, ranting, low deceiver, Wi’ heart sae black, and look sae big, And canting tongue o’ clishmaclaver! My father was a good lord’s son, My mother was an earl’s daughter, And I’ll be Lady Keith again, That day our king comes owre the water.
_Anonymous._
BURNS
CLII
O’ER THE WATER TO CHARLIE
_We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, And live and die wi’ Charlie._
Come, boat me o’er, come row me o’er, Come boat me o’er to Charlie! I’ll gie John Ross another bawbee To boat me o’er to Charlie.
I lo’e weel my Charlie’s name, Though some there be abhor him; But, O! to see Auld Nick gaun hame, And Charlie’s foes before him!
I swear and vow by moon and stars And sun that shines so early, If I had twenty thousand lives, I’d die as aft for Charlie!
_We’ll o’er the water, we’ll o’er the sea, We’ll o’er the water to Charlie! Come weal, come woe, we’ll gather and go, And live and die wi’ Charlie!_
_Robert Burns._
CLIII
A SONG OF EXILE
Frae the friends and land I love Driv’n by Fortune’s felly spite, Frae my best belov’d I rove, Never mair to taste delight! Never mair maun hope to find Ease frae toil, relief frae care. When remembrance wracks the mind, Pleasures but unveil despair.
Brightest climes shall mirk appear, Desert ilka blooming shore, Till the Fates, nae mair severe, Friendship, love, and peace restore; Till Revenge with laurell’d head Bring our banish’d hame again, And ilk loyal, bonnie lad Cross the seas, and win his ain!
_Robert Burns._
CLIV
KENMURE’S MARCH
O, Kenmure’s on and awa, Willie, O, Kenmure’s on and awa! An’ Kenmure’s lord’s the bravest lord That ever Galloway saw!
Success to Kenmure’s band, Willie, Success to Kenmure’s band! There’s no a heart that fears a Whig That rides by Kenmure’s hand.
Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine, Willie, Here’s Kenmure’s health in wine! There ne’er was a coward o’ Kenmure’s blude, Nor yet o’ Gordon’s line.
O, Kenmure’s lads are men, Willie, O, Kenmure’s lads are men! Their hearts and swords are metal true, And that their faes shall ken.
They’ll live or die wi’ fame, Willie, They’ll live or die wi’ fame! But soon wi’ sounding Victorie May Kenmure’s lord come hame!
Here’s him that’s far awa, Willie, Here’s him that’s far awa! And here’s the flower that I lo’e best-- The rose that’s like the sna!
_Robert Burns._
CLV
A JACOBITE’S FAREWELL
It was a’ for our rightfu’ king We left fair Scotland’s strand; It was a’ for our rightfu’ king, We e’er saw Irish land, My dear-- We e’er saw Irish land.
Now a’ is done that men can do, And a’ is done in vain, My Love and Native Land fareweel, For I maun cross the main, My dear-- For I maun cross the main.
He turn’d him right and round about Upon the Irish shore, And gae his bridle reins a shake, With adieu for evermore, My dear-- And adieu for evermore!
The soger frae the wars returns, The sailor frae the main, But I hae parted frae my love Never to meet again, My dear-- Never to meet again.
When day is gane, and night is come, And a’ folk bound to sleep, I think on him that’s far awa The lee-lang night, and weep, My dear-- The lee-lang night and weep.
_Robert Burns._
NAIRN
CLVI
CHARLIE IS MY DARLING
_Oh! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, Oh! Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier!_
As he cam’ marchin’ up the street, The pipes played loud and clear, An’ a’ the folk cam’ rinnin’ oot To meet the Chevalier.
Wi’ Hieland bonnets on their heads, An’ claymores bricht an’ clear, They cam’ to fecht for Scotland’s richt, An’ the young Chevalier.
They’ve left their bonnie Hieland hills, Their wives and bairnies dear, To draw the sword for Scotland’s lord, The young Chevalier.
_Oh! Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling, Oh! Charlie is my darling, the young Chevalier!_
_Lady Nairn._
CLVII
WHA’LL BE KING BUT CHARLIE?
The news frae Moidart cam’ yestreen Will soon gar mony ferlie; For ships o’ war hae just come in, And landed Royal Charlie.
_Come through the heather, around him gather, Ye’re a’ the welcomer early; Around him cling wi’ a’ your kin; For wha’ll be King but Charlie?_
The Hieland clans wi’ sword in hand, Frae John o’ Groats to Airlie, Hae to a man declared to stand Or fa’ wi’ Royal Charlie.
There’s ne’er a lass in a’ the land, But vows both late an’ early, To man she’ll ne’er gie heart or han’, Wha wadna fecht for Charlie.
Then here’s a health to Charlie’s cause, An’ be’t complete an’ early; His very name our hearts’ blood warms-- To arms for Royal Charlie!
_Come through the heather, around him gather, Come Ronald, come Donald, come a’ thegither, And claim your rightfu’, lawfu’ King, For wha’ll be King but Charlie?_
_Lady Nairn._
GLEN
CLVIII
WAE’S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE
A wee bird cam’ to our ha’ door, He warbled sweet an’ clearly, An’ aye the o’ercome o’ his sang, Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’ O! when I heard the bonnie, bonnie bird, The tears cam’ droppin’ rarely; I took my bonnet aff my head, For weel I lo’ed Prince Charlie.
Quoth I, ‘My bird, my bonnie, bonnie bird, Is that a sang ye borrow? Are these some words ye’ve learnt by heart, Or a lilt o’ dool an’ sorrow?’ ‘O! no, no, no,’ the wee bird sang, ‘I’ve flown sin’ mornin’ early, But sic a day o’ wind an’ rain-- Oh! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!
On hills that are by right his ain, He roams a lonely stranger, On ilka hand he’s press’d by want, On ilka side by danger: Yestreen I met him in a glen, My heart maist burstit fairly; For sairly changed indeed was he-- O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’
Dark night cam’ on, the tempest roar’d Cauld o’er the hills an’ valleys; An’ whaur was’t that your prince lay down, Whase hame should be a palace? He row’d him in a Hieland plaid, Which cover’d him but sparely, An’ slept beneath a bush o’ broom-- O! wae’s me for Prince Charlie!
But now the bird saw some red-coats, An’ he shook his wings wi’ anger; ‘O! this is no a land for me; I’ll tarry here nae langer.’ A while he hover’d on the wing, Ere he departed fairly, But weel I mind the fareweel strain Was ‘Wae’s me for Prince Charlie!’
_William Glen._
BOULTON
CLIX
SKYE BOAT-SONG
_Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye!_
Loud the winds howl, loud the waves roar, Thunder-clouds rend the air; Baffled, our foes stand by the shore, Follow they will not dare.
Though the waves leap, soft shall ye sleep; Ocean’s a royal bed. Rocked in the deep, Flora will keep Watch by your weary head.
Many’s the lad fought on that day Well the claymore could wield, When the night came silently lay Dead on Culloden’s field.
Burned are our homes, exile and death Scatter the loyal men; Yet ere the sword cool in the sheath Charlie will come again.
_Speed, bonnie boat, like a bird on the wing, ‘Onward’ the sailors cry; Carry the lad that’s born to be king Over the sea to Skye!_
_Harold Boulton._
MATHESON
CLX
A KISS OF THE KING’S HAND
It wasna from a golden throne, Or a bower with milk-white roses blown, But ’mid the kelp on northern sand That I got a kiss of the King’s hand.
I durstna raise my een to see If he even cared to glance at me; His princely brow with care was crossed, For his true men slain and kingdom lost.
Think not his hand was soft and white Or his fingers a’ with jewels dight, Or round his wrists were ruffles grand, When I got a kiss of the King’s hand.
But dearer far to my twa een Was the ragged sleeve of red and green Owre that young weary hand that fain With the guid broadsword had found its ain.
Farewell for ever! the distance grey And the lapping ocean seemed to say-- For him a home in a foreign land, And for me one kiss of the King’s hand.
_Sarah Robertson Matheson._
IV
IRELAND
GOLDSMITH
CLXI
HOME
In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs--and God has given my share-- I still had hopes my later hours to crown, Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down; To husband out life’s taper at the close And keep the flame from wasting by repose; I still had hopes, for pride attends us still, Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, Around my fire an evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt, and all I saw; And, as a hare whom hounds and horns pursue, Pants to the place from whence at first he flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return--and die at home at last.
_Oliver Goldsmith._
ANONYMOUS
CLXII
THE WEARIN’ O’ THE GREEN
O, Paddy dear! an’ did ye hear the news that’s goin’ round? The shamrock is by law forbid to grow on Irish ground; No more St. Patrick’s Day we’ll keep, his colour can’t be seen, For there’s a cruel law agin the wearin’ o’ the green! I met wid Napper Tandy, and he took me by the hand, And he said, ‘How’s poor Ould Ireland, and how does she stand?’ She’s the most disthressful country that iver yet was seen, For they’re hangin’ men and women there for wearin’ o’ the green.