Part 10
Yet my soul is veiled in sadness, For I see them fall and perish,
Strewing the hills for me, Claiming the world in dying, Bought with their blood for me.
Hear the grey, old, Northern Mother, Blessing now her dying children,--
God keep you safe for me, Christ watch you in your sleeping, Where ye have died for me!
And when God’s own slogan soundeth, All the dead world’s dust awaking,
Ah, will ye look for me? Bravely we’ll stand together I and my sons with me.
_Lauchlan MacLean Watt._
BOWLES
CXVIII
THE SONG OF THE SNOTTIES[A]
Listen! my brothers of Eton and Harrow, Hearken! my brothers of over the seas, Say! do your class-rooms seem dingy and narrow? List to the sound of the sea-scented breeze. Now for a moment if dreary your lot is, Wet bob or dry bob whichever you be, List to the tale and the song of the snotties, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea.
_The song of the snotties (The poor little snotties), Good luck to the snotties wherever they be, The dirk and the patches, The bruises and scratches, The song of the snotties who sail on the sea!_
Early we left you and late are returning Back to the land of our story and birth, Back to the land of our glory and yearning, Back from the uttermost ends of the earth. Hear you the bucket and clang of the brasses Working together by perfect decree? That is the tale of the glory which passes-- That is the song of the snotties at sea!
Often at noon when the gale’s at its strongest, Sadly we think of the days that are gone; Often at night when the watches are longest Have your remembrances heartened us on. And in the mazes of dim recollection, Still we’ll remember the days that are past, Till, on the hopes of a schoolboy affection, Death and his angels shall trample at last.
What though the enemy taunt and deride us! Have we forgotten the triumphs of yore? What if the oceans may seem to divide us! Brothers, remember the friendship we bore. Lo! it is finished--the day of probations. Up! and we stand for the England to be. Then, as the Head and the Front of the Nations, Brothers, your health!--from the snotties at sea!
_‘Stand well,’ say the snotties (‘Good luck,’ say the snotties), ‘And wisely and firmly and great shall we be; For monarchies tremble, And empires dissemble, But Britain shall stand’--say the snotties at sea!_
_George Frederic Stewart Bowles._
[A] From _A Gun-Room Ditty Box_ (Cassell & Co., 1898). By permission of author and publishers.
II
WALES
GRAY
CXIX
THE BARD
‘Ruin seize thee, ruthless King! Confusion on thy banners wait! Though fanned by Conquest’s crimson wing They mock the air with idle state. Helm, nor hauberk’s twisted mail, Nor e’en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria’s curse, from Cambria’s tears.’ Such were the sounds that o’er the crested pride Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay, As down the steep of Snowdon’s shaggy side He wound with toilsome march his long array: Stout Glo’ster stood aghast in speechless trance; ‘To arms!’ cried Mortimer, and couched his quivering lance.
On a rock, whose haughty brow Frowns o’er old Conway’s foaming flood, Robed in the sable garb of woe, With haggard eyes the poet stood (Loose his beard, and hoary hair Streamed like a meteor to the troubled air), And with a master’s hand and prophet’s fire, Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre: ‘Hark, how each giant oak, and desert cave Sighs to the torrent’s awful voice beneath! O’er thee, O King! their hundred arms they wave, Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe; Vocal no more, since Cambria’s fatal day, To high-born Hoel’s harp, or soft Llewellyn’s lay.
‘Cold is Cadwallo’s tongue That hushed the stormy main: Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed: Mountains, ye mourn in vain Modred, whose magic song Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topt head. On dreary Arvon’s shore they lie, Smeared with gore and ghastly pale: Far, far aloof th’ affrighted ravens sail; The famished eagle screams and passes by. Dear lost companions of my tuneful art, Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country’s cries!-- No more I weep. They do not sleep. On yonder cliffs, a grisly band, I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of their native land: With me in dreadful harmony they join, And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.
‘Weave the warp and weave the woof, The winding-sheet of Edward’s race: Give ample room and verge enough The characters of hell to trace. Mark the year and mark the night When Severn shall re-echo with affright The shrieks of death through Berkeley’s roof that ring, Shrieks of an agonizing king! She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven. What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow’s faded form, and Solitude behind.
‘Mighty victor, mighty lord, Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford A tear to grace his obsequies. Is the sable warrior fled? Thy son is gone. He rests among the dead. The swarm that in thy noontide beam were born? Gone to salute the rising morn. Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the zephyr blows, While proudly riding o’er the azure realm In gallant trim the gilded vessel goes: Youth on the prow and Pleasure at the helm: Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind’s sway, That hushed in grim repose expects his evening prey.
‘Fill high the sparkling bowl, The rich repast prepare; Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast: Close by the regal chair Fell Thirst and Famine scowl A baleful smile upon their baffled guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray, Lance to lance and horse to horse? Long years of havoc urge their destined course, And through the kindred squadrons mow their way. Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed, Revere his consort’s faith, his father’s fame, And spare the meek usurper’s holy head! Above, below, the rose of snow, Twined with her blushing foe, we spread: The bristled boar in infant-gore Wallows beneath the thorny shade. Now, brothers, bending o’er the accursed loom, Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.
‘Edward, lo! to sudden fate (Weave we the woof; the thread is spun); Half of thy heart we consecrate (The web is wove; the work is done). Stay, O stay! nor thus forlorn Leave me unblessed, unpitied, here to mourn: In yon bright track that fires the western skies They melt, they vanish from my eyes. But O! what solemn scenes on Snowdon’s height Descending slow their glittering skirts unroll? Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! No more our long-lost Arthur we bewail: All hail, ye genuine kings! Britannia’s issue, hail!
‘Girt with many a baron bold Sublime their starry fronts they rear; And gorgeous dames, and statesmen old In bearded majesty, appear. In the midst a form divine! Her eye proclaims her of the Briton line: Her lion-port, her awe-commanding face Attempered sweet to virgin grace. What strings symphonious tremble in the air, What strains of vocal transport round her play? Hear from the grave, great Taliessin, hear; They breathe a soul to animate thy clay. Bright Rapture calls and, soaring as she sings, Waves in the eye of Heaven her many-coloured wings.
‘The verse adorn again Fierce War and faithful Love And Truth severe, by fairy diction drest. In buskined measures move Pale Grief and pleasing Pain, With Horror, tyrant of the throbbing breast. A voice as of the cherub-choir Gales from blooming Eden bear, And distant warblings lessen on my ear That lost in long futurity expire. Fond impious man, think’st thou yon sanguine cloud, Raised by thy breath, has quenched the orb of day? To-morrow he repairs the golden flood And warms the nations with redoubled ray. Enough for me: with joy I see The different doom our fates assign: Be thine Despair and sceptred Care, To triumph and to die are mine.’ He spoke, and headlong from the mountain’s height Deep in the roaring tide he plunged to endless night.
_Thomas Gray._
HUNT
CXX
BODRYDDAN
O land of Druid and of Bard, Worthy of bearded Time’s regard, Quick-blooded, light-voiced, lyric Wales, Proud with mountains, rich with vales, And of such valour that in thee Was born a third of chivalry (And is to come again, they say, Blowing its trumpets into day, With sudden earthquake from the ground, And in the midst, great Arthur crown’d), I used to think of thee and thine As one of an old faded line Living in his hills apart, Whose pride I knew, but not his heart:-- But now that I have seen thy face, Thy fields, and ever youthful race, And women’s lips of rosiest word (So rich they open), and have heard The harp still leaping in thy halls, Quenchless as the waterfalls, I know thee full of pulse as strong As the sea’s more ancient song And of a sympathy as wide; And all this truth, and more beside, I should have known, had I but seen, O Flint, thy little shore; and been Where Truth and Dream walk, hand-in-hand, Bodryddan’s living Fairyland.
_James Henry Leigh Hunt._
HEMANS
CXXI
THE HARP OF WALES
Harp of the mountain-land! sound forth again As when the foaming Hirla’s horn was crown’d, And warrior hearts beat proudly to the strain, And the bright mead at Owain’s feast went round: Wake with the spirit and the power of yore! Harp of the ancient hills! be heard once more!
Thy tones are not to cease! The Roman came O’er the blue waters with his thousand oars: Through Mona’s oaks he sent the wasting flame; The Druid shrines lay prostrate on our shores: All gave their ashes to the wind and sea-- Ring out; thou harp! he could not silence thee.
Thy tones are not to cease! The Saxon pass’d, His banners floated on Eryri’s gales; But thou wert heard above the trumpet’s blast, E’en when his towers rose loftiest o’er the vales! _Thine_ was the voice that cheer’d the brave and free; They had their hills, their chainless hearts, and thee.
Those were dark years!--They saw the valiant fall, The rank weeds gathering round the chieftain’s board, The hearth left lonely in the ruin’d hall-- Yet power was _thine_--a gift in every chord! Call back that spirit to the days of peace, Thou noble harp! thy tones are not to cease!
_Felicia Hemans._
CXXII
PRINCE MADOG’S FAREWELL
Why lingers my gaze where the last hues of day On the hills of my country in loveliness sleep? Too fair is the sight for a wand’rer whose way Lies far o’er the measureless paths of the deep. Fall shadows of twilight, and veil the green shore, That the heart of the mighty may waver no more!
Why rise in my thoughts, ye free songs of the land Where the harp’s lofty soul on each wild wind is borne? Be hush’d! be forgotten! for ne’er shall the land Of the minstrel with melody greet my return. No, no! let your echoes still float on the breeze, And my heart shall be strong for the conquest of seas!
’Tis not for the land of my sires to give birth Unto bosoms that shrink when their trial is nigh; Away! we will bear over ocean and earth A name and a spirit that never shall die. My course to the winds, to the stars I resign; But my soul’s quenchless fire, oh, my country, is thine!
_Felicia Hemans._
JONES
CXXIII
THE MARCH OF THE MEN OF HARLECH
Glyndwr, see thy comet flaming! Hear a heav’nly voice declaiming, To the world below proclaiming ‘Cambria shall be free!’ While thy star on high is beaming, Soldiers from the mountain teeming, With their spears and lances gleaming, Come to follow thee. Hear the trumpet sounding, While the steeds are bounding! On the gale from hill and dale The war-cry is resounding.
Warriors famed in song and story, Coming from the mountains hoary, Rushing to the field of glory, Eager for the fray,-- To the valley wending, Hearths and homes defending With their proud and valiant Prince From ancient kings descending,-- See the mighty host advancing, Sunbeams on their helmets dancing! On his gallant charger prancing Glyndwr leads the way.
Now to battle they are going, Every heart with courage glowing, Pride and passion overflowing, In the furious strife; Lo, the din of war enrages, Vengeance crowns the hate of ages, Sternly foe with foe engages, Feeding Death with Life! Hear the trumpets braying, And the horses neighing! Hot the strife while fiery foes Are one another slaying!
Arrows fly as swift as lightning, Shout on shout the tumult height’ning, Conquest’s ruddy wing is bright’ning Helmet, sword and shield; With their lances flashing, Warriors wild are crashing Through the tyrant’s serried ranks, Whilst onwards they are dashing! Now the enemy is flying, Trampling on the dead and dying; Victory aloft is crying ‘Cambria wins the field!’
_John Jones._
MORRIS
CXXIV
LLEWELYN AP GRUFFYDD
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.