Part 11

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.

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?_