Some said to hill, and some to glen,
Their wondrous course had been;
But ne'er in haunts of living men
Again was Thomas seen.


THE following War-song was written during the apprehension of an invasion. The corps of volunteers, to which it was addressed, was raised in 1797, consisting of gentlemen, mounted and armed at their own expense. It still subsists, as the Right Troop of the Royal Mid-Lothian Light Cavalry, commanded by the Hon. Lieutenant-Colonel Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure of arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which furnished a force of 3000 armed and disciplined volunteers, including a regiment of cavalry, from the city and county, and two corps of artillery, each capable of serving twelve guns. To such a force, above all others, might, in similar circumstances, be applied the exhortation of our ancient Galgacus: "Proinde ituri in aciem, et majores vestros et posteros cogitate."

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 crowned;
We boast the red and blue.

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravished toys though Romans mourn,
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn,
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

O! had they marked 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 I
March forward, one and all!

[graphic][subsumed][merged small]

In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier-bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmorland.

I CLIMBED the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn,

Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide; All was still, save, by fits, when the eagle was yelling,

And starting around me the echoes replied.

On the right, Striden-edge round the Red-tarn was bending,
And Catchedicam its left verge was defending,

One huge nameless rock in the front was ascending,

When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.

Dark green was that spot 'mid the brown mountain-heather,
Where the Pilgrim of Nature lay stretched in decay,
Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain-winds wasted the tenantless clay.
Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended,
For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended,
The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.

How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber?
When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start?
How many long days and long nights didst thou number,
Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart?
And, O! was it meet, that, -
-no requiem read o'er him,
No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him,
And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him,-
Unhonoured the Pilgrim from life should depart

When a Prince to the fate of the Peasant has yielded,
The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted hall;
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,

And pages stand mute by the canopied pall:

Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are gleaming, In the proudly arched chapel the banners are beaming;

Far adown the long aisle sacred music is streaming,
Lamenting a Chief of the People should fall.

But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,

To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb,
When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature,
And draws his last sob by the side of his dam.
And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying,
Thy obsequies sung by the grey plover flying,
With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying,
In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicain.


O, Low shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro,

And weak were the whispers that waved the dark wood, All as a fair maiden, bewildered in sorrow,

Sorely sighed to the breezes, and wept to the flood.
"O saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bending;
Sweet Virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry;
Now grant my petition, in anguish ascending,
My Henry restore, or let Eleanor die!"-

All distant and faint were the sounds of the battle,

With the breezes they rise, with the breezes they fail,
Till the shout, and the groan, and the conflict's dread rattle,
And the chase's wild clamour, came loading the gale,
Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary;
Slowly approaching a warrior was seen;
Life's ebbing tide marked his footsteps so weary,
Cleft was his helmet, and woe was his mien.

"O, save thee, fair maid, for our armies are flying!
O, save thee, fair maid, for thy guardian is low!
Deadly cold on yon heath thy brave Henry is lying;
And fast through the woodland approaches the foe."
Scarce could he falter the tidings of sorrow,

And scarce could she hear them, benumbed with despair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro,

For ever he set to the Brave, and the Fair.


"O OPEN the door, some pity to show;
Keen blows the northern wind,
The glen is white with the drifted snow;
And the path is hard to find.

No Outlaw seeks your castle-gate,
From chasing the king's deer,

Though even an Outlaw's wretched state
Might claim compassion here.

A weary Palmer, worn and weak,
I wander for my sin;

[ocr errors]

open, for your lady's sake,
A pilgrim's blessing win!

I'll give you pardons from the pope,
And reliques from o'er the sea,—
O, if for these you will not ope,
Yet open for charity.

The hair is crouching in her form,
The hart beside the hind;
An aged man, amid the storm,
No shelter can I find.

You hear the Ettricke's sullen roar,
Dark, deep, and strong is he,
And I must ford the Ettricke o'er,
Unless you pity me.

The iron gate is bolted hard,
At which I knock in vain;
The owner's heart is closer barred,
Who hears me thus complain.

Farewell, farewell! and Mary grant,
When old and frail you be,
You never may the shelter want,
That's now denied to me.' ""

The Ranger on his couch lay warm,
And heard him plead in vain;

But oft amid December's storm,
He'll hear that voice again.

For lo, when, through the vapours dank.
Morn shone on Ettricke fair,

A corpse amid the alders rank,

The Palmer weltered there.


ALL joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climbed the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wandered beside it,

And banned it for parting my Willie and me.

Far o'er the wave hast thou followed thy fortune;
Oft fought the squadrons of France and of Spain;

Ae kiss of welcome worth twenty at parting,
Now I hae got my Willie again.

« VorigeDoorgaan »