Chapter 15

That happy day, when we welcomed them, Our men put Jessie first; And the general gave her his hand, and cheers Like a storm from the soldiers burst.

And the pipers' ribbons and tartan streamed, Marching round and round our line; And our joyful cheers were broken with tears, As the pipes played _Auld Long Syne_.

ROBERT T.S. LOWELL.

* * * * *

DANNY DEEVER.

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square--they're hangin' him to-day; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold," the Color-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" says Files-on-Parade. "A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound-- O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night," the Color-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times," said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone," the Color-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'--you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life," the Color-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now," the Color-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

RUDYARD KIPLING.

* * * * *

WHERE ARE THE MEN?

Where are the men who went forth in the morning, Hope brightly beaming in every face? Fearing no danger,--the Saxon foe scorning,-- Little thought they of defeat or disgrace! Fallen is their chieftain--his glory departed-- Fallen are the heroes who fought by his side! Fatherless children now weep, broken-hearted, Mournfully wandering by Rhuddlan's dark tide!

Small was the band that escaped from the slaughter, Flying for life as the tide 'gan to flow; Hast thou no pity, thou dark rolling water? More cruel still than the merciless foe! Death is behind them, and death is before them; Faster and faster rolls on the dark wave; One wailing cry--and the sea closes o'er them; Silent and deep is their watery grave.

From the Welsh of TALIESSIN, Translation of THOMAS OLIPHANT

* * * * *

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

[About 1307.]

For Scotland's and for freedom's right The Bruce his part had played, In five successive fields of fight Been conquered and dismayed; Once more against the English host His band he led, and once more lost The meed for which he fought; And now from battle, faint and worn, The homeless fugitive forlorn A hut's lone shelter sought.

And cheerless was that resting-place For him who claimed a throne: His canopy, devoid of grace, The rude, rough beams alone; The heather couch his only bed,-- Yet well I ween had slumber fled From couch of eider-down! Through darksome night till dawn of day, Absorbed in wakeful thoughts he lay Of Scotland and her crown.

The sun rose brightly, and its gleam Fell on that hapless bed, And tinged with light each shapeless beam Which roofed the lowly shed; When, looking up with wistful eye, The Bruce beheld a spider try His filmy thread to fling From beam to beam of that rude cot; And well the insect's toilsome lot Taught Scotland's future king.

Six times his gossamery thread The wary spider threw; In vain the filmy line was sped, For powerless or untrue Each aim appeared, and back recoiled The patient insect, six times foiled, And yet unconquered still; And soon the Bruce, with eager eye, Saw him prepare once more to try His courage, strength, and skill.

One effort more, his seventh and last-- The hero hailed the sign!-- And on the wished-for beam hung fast That slender, silken line! Slight as it was, his spirit caught The more than omen, for his thought The lesson well could trace, Which even "he who runs may read," That Perseverance gains its meed, And Patience wins the race.

BERNARD BARTON.

* * * * *

BANNOCKBURN.

[June 24, 1314.]

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 our 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.

* * * * *

SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE.

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO II.

Loud a hundred clansmen raise Their voices in their chieftain's praise. Each boatman, bending to his oar, With measured sweep the burthen bore, In such wild cadence, as the breeze Makes through December's leafless trees. The chorus first could Allen know, "Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! ieroe!" And near, and nearer, as they rowed, Distinct the martial ditty flowed.

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine! Long may the tree, in his banner that glances, Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! Heaven send it happy dew, Earth lend it sap anew, Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow, While every Highland glen Sends our shouts back again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Ours is no sapling chance-sown by the fountain. Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; Menteith and Breadalbane, then, Echo his praise again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin, And Bannachar's groans to our slogan replied; Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin, And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. Widow and Saxon maid Long shall lament our raid, Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe; Lennox and Leven-glen Shake when they hear again, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

Row, vassals, row, for the pride of the Highlands! Stretch to your oars for the evergreen Pine! O that the rosebud that graces yon islands Were wreathed in a garland around him to twine! O that some seedling gem, Worthy such noble stem, Honored and blessed in their shadow might grow! Loud should Clan-Alpine then Ring from the deepmost glen, "Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

BEAL' AN DHUINE.

[1411.]

FROM "THE LADY OF THE LAKE," CANTO VI.

There is no breeze upon the fern, No ripple on the lake, Upon her eyrie nods the erne, The deer has sought the brake; The small birds will not sing aloud, The springing trout lies still, So darkly glooms yon thunder-cloud, That swathes, as with a purple shroud, Benledi's distant hill. Is it the thunder's solemn sound That mutters deep and dread, Or echoes from the groaning ground The warrior's measured tread? Is it the lightning's quivering glance That on the thicket streams, Or do they flash on spear and lance The sun's retiring beams? I see the dagger crest of Mar, I see the Moray's silver star Wave o'er the cloud of Saxon war, That up the lake comes winding far! To hero bound for battle strife, Or bard of martial lay, 'Twere worth ten years of peaceful life, One glance at their array!

Their light-armed archers far and near Surveyed the tangled ground, Their centre ranks, with pike and spear, A twilight forest frowned, Their barbèd horsemen, in the rear, The stern battalia crowned. No cymbal clashed, no clarion rang, Still were the pipe and drum; Save heavy tread, and armor's clang, The sullen march was dumb. There breathed no wind their crests to shake, Or wave their flags abroad; Scarce the frail aspen seemed to quake, That shadowed o'er their road. Their vaward scouts no tidings bring, Can rouse no lurking foe, Nor spy a trace of living thing, Save when they stirred the roe; The host moves like a deep sea wave, Where rise no rocks its pride to brave, High swelling, dark, and slow. The lake is passed, and now they gain A narrow and a broken plain, Before the Trosach's rugged jaws; And here the horse and spearmen pause, While, to explore the dangerous glen, Dive through the pass the archer men.

At once there rose so wild a yell Within that dark and narrow dell. As all the fiends, from heaven that fell, Had pealed the banner cry of hell! Forth from the pass in tumult driven, Like chaff before the winds of heaven, The archery appear: For life! for life! their flight they ply-- And shriek, and shout, and battle-cry, And plaids and bonnets waving high, And broadswords flashing to the sky, Are maddening in the rear. Onward they drive, in dreadful race, Pursuers and pursued; Before that tide of flight and chase, How shall it keep its rooted place, The spearmen's twilight wood? --"Down, down," cried Mar, "your lances down! Bear back both friend and foe!" Like reeds before the tempest's frown, That serried grove of lances brown At once lay levelled low; And closely shouldering side to side, The bristling ranks the onset bide.-- --"We'll quell the savage mountaineer, As their Tinchel[A] cows the game; They come as fleet as forest deer, We'll drive them back as tame."

Bearing before them, in their course, The relics of the archer force, Like wave with crest of sparkling foam, Right onward did Clan-Alpine come. Above the tide, each broadsword bright Was brandishing like beam of light, Each targe was dark below; And with the ocean's mighty swing, When heaving to the tempest's wing, They hurled them on the foe.

I heard the lance's shivering crash, As when the whirlwind rends the ash; I heard the broadsword's deadly clang, As if a hundred anvils rang! But Moray wheeled his rearward flank-- Of horsemen on Clan-Alpine's flank-- "My bannerman, advance! I see," he cried, "their columns shake. Now, gallants! for your ladies' sake, Upon them with the lance!" The horsemen dashed among the rout, As deer break through the broom; Their steeds are stout, their swords are out, They soon make lightsome room. Clan-Alpine's best are backward borne-- Where, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men! And refluent through the pass of fear The battle's tide was poured; Vanished the Saxon's struggling spear, Vanished the mountain sword. As Bracklinn's chasm, so black and steep, Receives her roaring linn, As the dark caverns of the deep Suck the wild whirlpool in, So did the deep and darksome pass Devour the battle's mingled mass; None linger now upon the plain, Save those who ne'er shall fight again.

[Footnote A: A circle of sportsmen, surrounding the deer.]

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

PIBROCH OF DONUIL DHU.[A]

[Footnote A: Pipe-summons, or gathering-song, of Donald the Black.]

[1481.]

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 mountains so rocky; The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlochy. 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.

* * * * *

FLODDEN FIELD.

[September, 1513.]

FROM "MARMION," CANTO VI.

A moment then Lord Marmion stayed, And breathed his steed, his men arrayed, Then forward moved his band, Until, Lord Surrey's rear-guard won, He halted by a cross of stone, That, on a hillock standing lone, Did all the field command.

Hence might they see the full array Of either host for deadly fray; Their marshalled lines stretched east and west, And fronted north and south, And distant salutation past From the loud cannon-mouth; Not in the close successive rattle That breathes the voice of modern battle, But slow and far between.-- The hillock gained, Lord Marmion stayed: "Here, by this cross," he gently said, "You well may view the scene; Here shalt thou tarry, lovely Clare: O, think of Marmion in thy prayer!-- Thou wilt not?--well,--no less my care Shall, watchful, for thy weal prepare.-- You, Blount and Eustace, are her guard, With ten picked archers of my train; With England if the day go hard, To Berwick speed amain,-- But, if we conquer, cruel maid, My spoils shall at your feet be laid, When here we meet again." He waited not for answer there, And would not mark the maid's despair, Nor heed the discontented look From either squire: but spurred amain, And, dashing through the battle-plain, His way to Surrey took.

* * * * *

Blount and Fitz-Eustace rested still With Lady Clare upon the hill; On which (for far the day was spent) The western sunbeams now were bent. The cry they heard, its meaning knew, Could plain their distant comrades view: Sadly to Blount did Eustace say, "Unworthy office here to stay! No hope of gilded spurs to-day.-- But, see! look up,--on Flodden bent The Scottish foe has fired his tent."-- And sudden, as he spoke, From the sharp ridges of the hill, All downward to the banks of Till Was wreathed in sable smoke. Volumed and vast, and rolling far, The cloud enveloped Scotland's war, As down the hill they broke; Nor martial shout, nor minstrel tone, Announced their march; their tread alone, At times their warning trumpet blown, At times a stifled hum, Told England, from his mountain-throne King James did rushing come.-- Scarce could they hear or see their foes, Until at weapon-point they close.-- They close in clouds of smoke and dust, With sword-sway and with lance's thrust; And such a yell was there, Of sudden and portentous birth, As if men fought upon the earth And fiends in upper air: O, life and death were in the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair. Long looked the anxious squires; their eye Could in the darkness naught descry.

At length the freshening western blast Aside the shroud of battle cast; And, first, the ridge of mingled spears Above the brightened cloud appears; And in the smoke the pennons flew, As in the storm the white sea-mew. Then marked they, dashing broad and far, The broken billows of the war, And plumèd crests of chieftains brave Floating like foam upon the wave; But naught distinct they see: Wide raged the battle on the plain; Spears shook, and falchions flashed amain; Fell England's arrow-flight like rain; Crests rose, and stooped, and rose again, Wild and disorderly. Amid the scene of tumult, high They saw Lord Marmion's falcon fly: And stainless Tunstall's banner white, And Edmund Howard's lion bright, Still bear them bravely in the fight; Although against them come Of gallant Gordons many a one, And many a stubborn Highlandman, And many a rugged Border clan, With Huntley and with Home.

Far on the left, unseen the while, Stanley broke Lennox and Argyle; Though there the western mountaineer Rushed with bare bosom on the spear, And flung the feeble targe aside, And with both hands the broadsword plied, 'Twas vain:--But Fortune, on the right, With fickle smile, cheered Scotland's fight. Then fell that spotless banner white, The Howard's lion fell; Yet still Lord Marmion's falcon flew With wavering flight, while fiercer grew Around the battle-yell. The Border slogan rent the sky! A Home! a Gordon! was the cry: Loud were the clanging blows; Advanced,--forced back,--now low, now high, The pennon sunk and rose; As bends the bark's mast in the gale, When rent are rigging, shrouds, and sail, It wavered mid the foes. No longer Blount the view could bear:-- "By heaven and all its saints, I swear, I will not see it lost! Fitz-Eustace, you with Lady Clare May bid your beads, and patter prayer,-- I gallop to the host." And to the fray he rode amain, Followed by all the archer train. The fiery youth, with desperate charge, Made, for a space, an opening large, The rescued banner rose. But darkly closed the war around. Like pine-tree rooted from the ground. It sunk among the foes. Then Eustace mounted too;--yet stayed, As loath to leave the helpless maid, When, fast as shaft can fly, Bloodshot his eyes, his nostrils spread, The loose rein dangling from his head, Housing and saddle bloody red, Lord Marmion's steed rushed by; And Eustace, maddening at the sight, A look and sign to Clara cast, To mark he would return in haste, Then plunged into the fight.

Ask me not what the maiden feels, Left in that dreadful hour alone: Perchance her reason stoops or reels; Perchance a courage, not her own, Braces her mind to desperate tone.-- The scattered van of England wheels;-- She only said, as loud in air; The tumult roared, "Is Wilton there?" They fly, or, maddened by despair, Fight but to die,--"Is Wilton there?" With that, straight up the hill there rode; Two horsemen drenched with gore, And in their arms, a helpless load, A wounded knight they bore. His hand still strained the broken brand; His arms were smeared with blood and sand. Dragged from among the horses' feet, With dinted shield, and helmet beat, The falcon-crest and plumage gone, Can that be haughty Marmion!... Young Blount his armor did unlace, And, gazing on his ghastly face, Said,--"By Saint George, he's gone! That spear-wound has our master sped,-- And see the deep cut on his head! Good night to Marmion."-- "Unnurtured Blount! thy brawling cease: He opes his eyes," said Eustace; "peace!"

When, doffed his casque, he felt free air, Around 'gan Marmion wildly stare:-- "Where's Harry Blount? Fitz-Eustace where? Linger ye here, ye hearts of hare! Redeem my pennon,--charge again! Cry--'Marmion to the rescue!'--vain! Last of my race, on battle-plain That shout shall ne'er be heard again!-- Yet my last thought is England's:--fly, To Dacre bear my signet-ring: Tell him his squadrons up to bring:-- Fitz-Eustace, to Lord Surrey hie; Tunstall lies dead upon the field, His life-blood stains the spotless shield: Edmund is down;--my life is reft;-- The Admiral alone is left. Let Stanley charge with spur of fire,-- With Chester charge, and Lancashire, Full upon Scotland's central host, Or victory and England's lost.-- Must I bid twice?--hence, varlets! fly! Leave Marmion here alone--to die." They parted, and alone he lay: Clare drew her from the sight away, Till pain rung forth a lowly moan, And half he murmured,--"Is there none, Of all my halls have nurst. Page, squire, or groom, one cup to bring, Of blessèd water from the spring, To slake my dying thirst?"

O woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please, And variable as the shade By the light quivering aspen made; When pain and anguish wring the brow, A ministering angel thou!-- Scarce were the piteous accents said, When, with the Baron's casque, the maid To the nigh streamlet ran; Forgot were hatred, wrongs, and fears; The plaintive voice alone she hears, Sees but the dying man. She stooped her by the runnel's side, But in abhorrence backward drew; For, oozing from the mountain's side, Where raged the war, a dark-red tide Was curdling in the streamlet blue, Where shall she turn!--behold her mark A little fountain cell, Where water, clear as diamond-spark, In a stone basin fell. Above, some half-worn letters say, Drink : weary : pilgrim : drink : and : pray : for : the : kind : soul : of : Sybil : Gray : Who : built : this : cross : and : well : She filled the helm, and back she hied, And with surprise and joy espied A monk supporting Marmion's head; A pious man whom duty brought To dubious verge of battle fought, To shrive the dying, bless the dead.