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MONCONTOUR.

For we trampled on the throng of the haughty

and the strong, O, WEEP for Moncontour ! 0, weep for the hour Who sate in the high places and slew the saints When the children of darkness and evil had of God.

power; When the horsemen of Valois triumphantly trod It was about the noon of a glorious day of June On the bosoms that bled for their rights and That we saw their banners dance and their their God.

cuirasses shine,

And the man of blood was there, with his long 0, weep for Moncontour ! O, weep for the slain Who for faith and for freedom lay slaughtered in And Astley, and Sir Marmaduke, and Rupert of vain !

the Rhine. O, weep for the living, who linger to bear The renegade's shame or the exile's despair ! Like a servant of the Lord, with his Bible and

his sword, One look, one last look, to the cots and the The General rode along us to form us for the fight; towers,

When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled To the rows of our vines and the beds of our into a shout flowers ;

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's To the church where the bones of our fathers' right.

decayed, Where we fondly had deemed that ourown should And hark! like the roar of the billows on the be laid.

shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line : Alas! we must leave thee, dear desolate home, For God! for the cause ! for the Church ! for the To the spearmen of Uri, the shavelings of Rome ;/ laws! To the serpent of Florence, the sultan of Spain ; | For Charles, king of England, and Rupert of the To the pride of Anjou, and the guile of Lorraine. l. Rhine !

Farewell to thy fountains, farewell to thy shades, The furious German comes, with his clarions and To the song of thy youths, the dance of thy his drums, maids;

His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall; To the breath of thy gardens, the hum of thy They are bursting on our flanks ! Grasp your bees,

pikes ! Close your ranks ! And the long waving line of the blue Pyrenees ! For Rupert never comes but to conquer, or to

fall. Farewell and forever! The priest and the slave May rule in the halls of the free and the brave;

They are here, — they rush on, — we are broken, Our hearths we abandon, - ourlands we resign,

- we are gone, But, Father, we kneel to no altar but thine.

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the

blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend

the right!

Stand back to back, in God's name ! and fight NASEBY.

it to the last !

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

O, WHEREFORE come ye forth in triumph from Stout Skippen hath a wound, — the centre hath the north,

given ground. With your hands, and your feet, and your rai- Hark ! hark! what means the trampling of ment all red ?

horsemen on our rear ? And wherefore doth your rout send forth a joy- / Whose banner do I see, boys? 'T is he! thank ous shout ?

God ! 't is he, boys! And whence be the grapes of the wine-press that Bear up another minute! Brave Oliver is here ! ye tread ?

| Their heads all stooping low, their points all in O, evil was the root, and bitter was the fruit,

a row, And crimson was the juice of the vintage that Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on we trod;

the dikes,

BRUCE AND THE SPIDER.

Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the

accurst, And at a shock have scattered the forest of his

pikes.

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Fast, fast the gallants ride, in some safe 'nook

to hide Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Tem

ple Bar ; And he -- he turns! he flies ! shame on those

cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look

on war! Ho, comrades ! scour the plain ; and ere ye strip

the slain, First give another stab to make your search

secure; Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad

pieces and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the

poor.

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 thought he lay

Of Scotland and her crown.

Fools ! your doublets shone with gold, and your

hearts were gay and bold, When you kissed your lily hands to your le

mans to-day ; And to-morrow shall the fox from her chambers

in the rocks Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the

prey.

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.

Where be your tongues, that late mocked at

heaven and hell and fate ? And the fingers that once were so busy with your

blades? Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and

your oaths ? Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your dia

monds and your spades ?

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.

Down ! down ! forever down, with the mitre and

the crown! With the Belial of the court, and the Mammon

of the Pope ! There is woe in Oxford halls, there is wail in

Durham's stalls ; The Jesuit smites his bosom, the bishop rends,

his cope. And she of the seven hills shall mourn her chil

dren's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of

England's sword; And the kings of earth in fear shall shudder

when they hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the

houses and the word !

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 ARTON.

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY.

BANNOCKBURN.

At Bannockburn the English lay, -
The Scots they were na far away,
But, waited for the break o' day

That glinted in the east.

| But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of

war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ! 'Tis thine, O Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 0, weep! but thy tears cannot number the dead ; For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden ! that reeks with the blood of the brave.

But soon the sun broke through the heath
Ara lighted up that field o' death,
nen Bruce, wi' saul-inspiring breath,

His heralds thus addressed :

“Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, Scots, wham Bruce has often led, Welcome to your gory bed,

Or to glorious victory!

LOCHIEL.
Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer !
Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful appear,
Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight
This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright.

“Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o battle lour ;
See approach proud Edward's power, -

Edward ! chains and slavery!

“Wha will be a traitor knave? Wha can fill a coward's grave ? Wha sae başe as be a slave?

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee!

" Wha for Scotland's king and law Freedom's sword will strongly draw, Freeman stand, or freeman fa',

Caledonia ! on wi' me !

WIZARD.
Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn!
Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be

torn!
Say, rushed the bold eagle exultingly forth
From his home in the dark rolling clouds of the

north!
Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode
Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ;
But down let him stoop from his havoc on high!
Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh.
Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the

blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast !
'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyry, that beacons the darkness of

heaven.
O crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return !
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it

stood,
Anda wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.

“By oppression's woes and pains ! By your sons in servile chains ! We will drain our dearest veins,

But they shall be shall be free!

“Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty 's in every blow !
Forward ! let us do, or die !"

ROBERT BURNS

LOCHIEL.
LOCHIEL'S WARNING.

False Wizard, avaunt! I have marshalled my clan,
WIZARD. – LOCHIEL.

Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one!

They are true to the last of their blood and their WIZARD.

breath, LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day

And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array, Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight. rock! They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, crown,

When Albin her claymore indignantly draws; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

i

king.

WIZARD.

That knits me to thy rugged strand ? -Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day;

Still, as I view each well-known scene, For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, Think what is now, and what hath been, But man cannot cover what God would reveal;

Seems as, to me, of all bereft, 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore,

Sole friends thy woods and streams were left; And coming events cast their shadows before.

And thus I love them better still, I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring

Even in extremity of ill. With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive

By Yarrow's stream still let me stray,

Though none should guide my feeble way; Lo! anointed by Heaven with the phials of wrath, Still feel the breeze down Ettrick break, Behold where he flies on his desolate path !

Although it chill my withered cheek ; Now in darkness and billows he sweeps from my

Still lay my head by Teviot stone, sight.

Though there, forgotten and alone, Rise, rise ! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! The bard may draw his parting groan.

SIR WALTER SCOTT. "T is finished. Their thunders are hushed on the

moors. " Culloden is lost, and my country deplores, But where is the iron-bound prisoner? Where?

MACGREGOR'S GATHERING. For the red eye of battle is shut in despair.

Air, “THAIN' A GRIGALACH." Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banished, forlorn,

These verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively, gathering Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and

tune, used by the Macgregors. The severe treatment of this clan, torn?

their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded

to in the ballad.] Ah no! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; THE moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the His death-bell is tolling : 0 mercy, dispel Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! And the clan has a name that is nameless by day; Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach ! And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. Gather, gather, gather, etc. Accursed be the fagots that blaze at his feet, Where his heart shall be thrown ere it ceases to Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, beat,

Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo ! With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale - 1

Then haloo, Grigalach ! haloo, Grigalach !
Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach, etc.

brae,

LOCHIEL.

- Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchurn and For never shall Albin a destiny meet,

her towers, So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours : Though my perishing ranks should be strewed in

We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach ! their gore,

Landless, landless, landless, etc.
Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,

? But doomed and devoted by vassal and lord While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, Macan

| Macgregor has still both his heart and his sword ! Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,

Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach ! With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!

Courage, courage, courage, etc. And leaving in battle no blot on his name,

If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles, Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of

"Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to fame. THOMAS CAMPBELL.

the eagles !
Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance,

Grigalach !
SCOTLAND.

Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, etc.

O CALEDONIA ! stern and wild,
Meet nurse for a poetic child !
Land of brown heath and shaggy wood,
Land of the mountain and the flood,
Land of my sires ! what mortal hand
Can e'er untie the filial band

While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on

the river, | Macgregor, despite them, shall flourish forever !

Come then, Grigalach ! come then, Griga

lach!
Come then, come then, come then, etc.

Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steeds How, in the name of soldiership and sense, shall career,

Should England prosper, when such things, as
O'er the peak of Ben Lomond the galley shall steer, smooth
And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt, And tender as a girl, all essenced o'er
Ere our wrongs be forgot or our vengeance unfelt! | With odors, and as profligate as sweet,

Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach! Who sell their laurel for a myrtle wreath,
Gather, gather, gather, etc.

And love when they should fight, — when such as
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

these
Presume to lay their hand upon the ark

Of her magnificent and awful cause?
ENGLAND.

Time was when it was praise and boast enough

In every clime, and travel where we might, I TRAVELLED among unknown men

That we were born her children. Praise enough In lands beyond the sea ;

To fill the ambition of a private man, Nor, England ! did I know till then

That Chatham's language was his mother tongue, What love I bore to thee.

And Wolfe's great name compatriot with his own.

WILLIAM COWPER.

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Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
MY COUNTRY.

More dreadful from each foreign stroke;

| As the loud blasts that tear thy skies
FROM "THE TIMEPIECE.”

Serve but to root thy native oak.
ENGLAND, with all thy faults, I love thee still, - Rule Britannia ! etc.
My country! and, while yet a nook is left
Where English minds and manners may be found, Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
Shall be constrained to love thee. Though thy All their attempts to hurl thee down
clime

| Will but arouse thy generous flame,
Be fickle, and thy year most part deformed And work their woe - but thy renown.
With dripping rains, or withered by a frost,

Rule Britannia ! etc.
I would not yet exchange thy sullen skies,
And fields without a flower, for warmer France | To thee belongs the rural reign :
With all her vines ; nor for Ausonia's groves

Thy cities shall with commerce shine ;
Of golden fruitage and her myrtle bowers.

| All thine shall be the subject nain, To shake thy senate, and from height sublime

And every shore encircle thine.
Of patriot eloquence to flash down fire

Rule Britannia! etc.
Upon thy foes, was never meant my task :
But I can feel thy fortunes, and partake

The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Thy joys and sorrows with as true a heart

Shall to thy happy coast repair ; As any thunderer there. And I can feel

Blest Isle ! with matchless beauty crowned, Thy follies too ; and with a just disdain

And manly hearts to guard the fair. Frown at effeminates whose very looks

Rule Britannia ! etc. Reflect dishonor on the land I love.

JAMES THOMSON.

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