Part 12
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.
An’ if the colour we must wear is England’s cruel red, Let it remind us of the blood that Ireland has shed; Then pull the shamrock from your hat and throw it on the sod,-- And never fear, ’twill take root there, tho’ under foot ’tis trod! When law can stop the blades of grass from growin’ as they grow, And when the leaves in summer-time their colour dare not show, Then I will change the colour, too, I wear in my caubeen, But till that day, plaze God, I’ll stick to wearin’ o’ the green.
_Anonymous._
MOORE
CLXIII
THE MINSTREL BOY
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you’ll find him; His father’s sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him. ‘Land of song!’ said the warrior bard, ‘Tho’ all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!’
The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman’s chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne’er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, ‘No chain shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery! Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery.’
_Thomas Moore._
CLXIV
A SONG OF THE IRISH
Remember the glories of Brien the brave, Tho’ the days of the hero are o’er, Tho’ lost to Mononia, and cold in the grave, He returns to Kincora no more! That star of the field, which so often has pour’d Its beam on the battle, is set; But enough of its glory remains on each sword To light us to victory yet!
Mononia! when Nature embellished the tint Of thy fields and thy mountains so fair, Did she ever intend that a tyrant should print The footstep of slavery there? No! Freedom, whose smile we shall never resign, Go, tell our invaders the Danes, That ’tis sweeter to bleed for an age at thy shrine Than to sleep but a moment in chains.
Forget not our wounded companions, who stood In the day of distress by our side; While the moss of the valley grew red with their blood, They stirred not, but conquered and died! The sun that now blesses our arms with his light, Saw them fall upon Ossory’s plain: Oh! let him not blush when he leaves us to-night To find that they fell there in vain!
_Thomas Moore._
CLXV
DEPARTED GLORY
The harp that once through Tara’s halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls, As if that soul were fled.-- So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory’s thrill is o’er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.
No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells; The chord alone, that breaks at night, Its tale of ruin tells. Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives, Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.
_Thomas Moore._
CLXVI
THE CHOICE
O, where’s the slave so lowly, Condemn’d to chains unholy, Who, could he burst His bonds at first, Would pine beneath them slowly? What soul, whose wrongs degrade it, Would wait till time decay’d it, When thus its wing At once may spring To the throne of Him who made it?
Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!
Less dear the laurel growing, Alive, untouch’d and blowing, Than that, whose braid Is pluck’d to shade The brows with victory glowing. We tread the land that bore us, Her green flag glitters o’er us, The friends we’ve tried Are by our side And the foe we hate before us.
Farewell, Erin,--farewell, all, Who live to weep our fall!
_Thomas Moore._
CLXVII
A SONG OF TRUE LOVE
She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her, sighing: But coldly she turns from their gaze and weeps, For her heart in the grave is lying.
She sings the wild song of her dear native plains, Every note which he lov’d awaking;-- Ah! little they think who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.
He had liv’d for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwin’d him; Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his love stay behind him.
O! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the west, From her own loved Island of Sorrow.
_Thomas Moore._
CLXVIII
TO ERIN
Erin, the tear and the smile in thine eyes, Blend like the rainbow that hangs in thy skies! Shining through sorrow’s stream, Saddening through pleasure’s beam, Thy suns with doubtful gleam, Weep while they rise.
Erin, thy silent tear never shall cease, Erin, thy languid smile ne’er shall increase, Till, like the rainbow’s light, Thy various tints unite, And form in Heaven’s sight One arch of peace!
_Thomas Moore._
CLXIX
THE MINSTREL TO HIS HARP
Dear Harp of my country! in darkness I found thee, The cold chain of silence had hung o’er thee long, When proudly, my own Island Harp, I unbound thee, And gave all thy chords to light, freedom, and song! The warm lay of love and the light note of gladness Have waken’d thy fondest, thy liveliest thrill; But, so oft hast thou echo’d the deep sigh of sadness, That even in thy mirth it will steal from thee still.
Dear Harp of my country! farewell to thy numbers, This sweet wreath of song is the last we shall twine! Go, sleep with the sunshine of Fame on thy slumbers, Till touch’d by some hand less unworthy than mine; If the pulse of the patriot, soldier, or lover, Have throbb’d at thy lay, ’tis thy glory alone; I was but as the wind, passing heedlessly over, And all the wild sweetness I wak’d was thy own.
_Thomas Moore._
TONNA
CLXX
THE MAIDEN CITY
Where Foyle her swelling waters Rolls northward to the main, Here, Queen of Erin’s daughters, Fair Derry fixed her reign: A holy temple crowned her, And commerce graced her street, A rampart wall was round her, The river at her feet: And here she sat alone, boys, And looking from the hill, Vow’d the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still.
From Antrim crossing over, In famous eighty-eight, A plumed and belted lover Came to the Ferry Gate; She summoned to defend her Our sires--a beardless race-- They shouted, ‘No surrender!’ And slamm’d it in his face. Then in a quiet tone, boys, They told him ’twas their will That the Maiden on her throne, boys, Should be a Maiden still.
Next, crushing all before him, A kingly wooer came (The royal banner o’er him Blushed crimson-deep for shame); He showed the Pope’s commission, Nor dreamed to be refused, She pitied his condition, But begged to stand excused. In short, the fact is known, boys, She chased him from the hill, For the Maiden on her throne, boys, Would be a Maiden still.
On our brave sires descending, ’Twas then the tempest broke, Their peaceful dwellings rending ’Mid blood, and flame, and smoke. That hallow’d graveyard yonder Swells with the slaughtered dead-- O, brothers! pause and ponder, It was for us they bled; And while their gifts we own, boys-- The fane that tops our hill, O, the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still.
Nor wily tongue shall move us, Nor tyrant arm affright, We’ll look to One above us, Who ne’er forsook the right; Who will may crouch and tender The birthright of the free, But, brothers, ‘No surrender!’ No compromise for me! We want no barrier stone, boys, No gates to guard the hill, Yet the Maiden on her throne, boys, Shall be a Maiden still!
_Charlotte Elizabeth Tonna._
MANGAN
CLXXI
KINCORA
(_From the Irish_)
O, where, Kincora! is Brien the Great? And where is the beauty that once was thine? O, where are the princes and nobles that sate At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine? Where, O, Kincora?
O, where, Kincora! are thy valorous lords? O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords? And where are the warriors Brien led on? Where, O, Kincora?
And where is Donogh, King Brien’s son? And where is Conàing, the beautiful chief? And Kiàn and Corc? Alas! they are gone; They have left me this night alone with my grief! Left me, Kincora!
O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds? And where is Kiàn, who was son of Molloy? And where is king Lonergan, fame of whose deeds In the red battle no time can destroy? Where, O, Kincora!
I am MacLaig, and my home is on the lake: Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, Came Brien to ask me, and I went for his sake, O, my grief! that I should live and Brien be dead! Dead, O, Kincora!
_James Clarence Mangan._
CLXXII
DARK ROSALEEN
(_From the Irish_)
O! my Dark Rosaleen, Do not sigh, do not weep! The priests are on the ocean green, They march along the deep. There’s wine from the royal Pope, Upon the ocean green; And Spanish ale shall give you hope, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, Shall give you health, and help, and hope, My Dark Rosaleen!
Over hills, and through dales, Have I roamed for your sake; All yesterday I sailed with sails On river and on lake. The Erne at its highest flood I dashed across unseen, For there was lightning in my blood My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! O! there was lightning in my blood, Red lightning lightened through my blood, My Dark Rosaleen!
All day long, in unrest, To and fro do I move, The very soul within my breast Is wasted for you, love! The heart in my bosom faints To think of you, my Queen, My life of life, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen! My own Rosaleen! To hear your sweet and sad complaints, My life, my love, my saint of saints, My Dark Rosaleen!