Whom brief rolling moons in six changes have left, Of thy husband, and father, and brethren bereft, To thine ear of affection, how sad is the hail, That salutes thee the Heir of the line of Kintail ! WAR-SONG OF LACHLAN, HIGH CHIEF OF MACLEAN. (1815.) (From the Gaelic.) A WEARY month has wander'd o'er Since last we parted on the shore; Heaven! that I saw thee, love, once more, Safe on that shore again! Clan-Gillian is to ocean gone- In many a bloody broil : Clan-Gillian drives the spoil. Woe to the hills that shall rebound Our banner'd bagpipes' maddening sound; Clan-Gillian's onset echoing round Shall shake their inmost cell. Woe to the bark whose crew shall gaze Where Lachlan's silken streamer plays! The fools might face the lightning's blaze As wisely and as well! SAINT CLOUD. (Paris, September 5, 1815.) SOFTspread the southern summer night Her veil of darksome blue; Ten thousand stars combined to light The terrace of Saint Cloud. The evening breezes gently sigh'd, And wreck of sweet Saint Cloud. The drum's deep roll was heard afar, Good-night to Hulan and Hussar, The startled Naiads from the shade We sate upon its steps of stone, Nor could its silence rue, Slow Seine might hear each lovely note Prolong'd from fair Saint Cloud. And sure a melody more sweet Nor then, with more delighted ear. The circle round her drew, Than ours, when gather'd round to hear Our songstress at Saint Cloud. Few happy hours poor mortals pass,— Then give those hours their due, And rank among the foremost class Our evenings at Saint Cloud. THE DANCE OF DEATH. (1815.) NIGHT and morning were at meeting Cocks had sung their earliest greeting; Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wishing dawn of morn again, Though death should come with day. 'Tis at such a tide and hour, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower Gleam on the gifted ken; And then the affrighted prophet's ear Drinks whispers strange of fate and fear, Presaging death and ruin near Among the sons of men ;Apart from Albyn's war-array, 'Twas then grey Allan sleepless lay; Grey Allan, who, for many a day, Had follow'd stout and stern, Where, through battle's rout and reel, Storm of shot and hedge of steel, Led the grandson of Lochiel, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more, Low laid 'mid friends' and foemen's gore But long his native lake's wild shore, And Sunart rough, and high Ardgower, And Morven long shall tell, And proud Bennevis hear with awe, How, upon bloody Quatre-Bras, Brave Cameron heard the wild hurra Of conquest as he fell. Lone on the outskirts of the host course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse. But there are sounds in Allan's ear When down the destined plain, 'Twixt Britain and the bands of France, Wild as marsh-borne meteor's glance, Strange phantoms wheel'd a revel dance, And doom'd the future slain. Such forms were seen, such sounds were heard, When Scotland's James his march prepared For Flodden's fatal plain; Such, when he drew his ruthless sword, As Choosers of the Slain, adored The yet unchristen'd Dane. An indistinct and phantom band, They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, With gestures wild and dread: The Seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, Saw through their faint and shadowy form The lightning's flash more red; And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead : SONG. 'Wheel the wild dance To sleep without a shroud. 'Our airy feet, So light and fleet, They do not bend the rye That sinks its head when whirlwinds rave, And swells again in eddying wave At dawn of morn, Our fatal steps that bore, At eve lies waste A trampled paste Of blackening mud and gore. 'Wheel the wild dance To sleep without a shroud. 'Wheel the wild dance! Brave sons of France, For you our ring makes room; Make space full wide For martial pride, For banner, spear, and plume. Room for the men of steel! Both head and heart shall feel. 'Wheel the wild dance While lightnings glance, And thunders rattle loud, And call the brave To bloody grave, To sleep without a shroud. ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. (1815.) (From the French of Hortense Beauharnois, Ex-Queen of Holland.) It was Dunois, the young and brave, was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orisons before Saint Mary's shrine : 'And grant, immortal Queen of Heaven,' was still the soldier's prayer, "That I may prove the bravest knight, and love the fairest fair.' His oath of honour on the shrine he graved it with his sword, And follow'd to the Holy Land the banner of his Lord; Where, faithful to his noble vow, his war-cry fill'd the air, 'Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair.' They owed the conquest to his arm, and then his Liege-Lord said, The heart that has for honour beat by bliss must be repaid. My daughter Isabel and thou shall be a wedded pair, For thou art bravest of the brave, she fairest of the fair.' And then they bound the holy knot before Saint Mary's shrine, That makes a paradise on earth, if hearts and hands combine; And every lord and lady bright, that were in chapel there, Cried,' Honour'd be the bravest knight, beloved the fairest fair!' THE TROUBADOUR. (1815.) (From the French of Hortense Beauharnois.) GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his Lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good morrow: 'My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my true-love's bower; Gaily for love and fame to fight Befits the gallant Troubadour.' And while he march'd with helm on head And harp in hand, the descant rung, As, faithful to his favourite maid, The minstrel-burden still he sung: 'My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; Resolved for love and fame to fight, I come, a gallant Troubadour.' Even when the battle-roar was deep, With dauntless heart he hew'd his way, 'Mid splintering lance and falchionsweep, And still was heard his warrior-lay: 'My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love to die, for fame to fight, Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' Alas! upon the bloody field He fell beneath the foeman's glaive, But still reclining on his shield, Expiring sung the exuiting stave: 'My life it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; For love and fame to fall in fight Becomes the valiant Troubadour.' When the Southern invader spread waste and disorder, At the glance of her crescents he paused and withdrew, For around them were marshall'd the pride of the Border, The Flowers of the Forest, the Then up with the Banner, &c. A Stripling's weak hand to our revel has borne her, No mail-glove has grasp'd her, no spearmen surround; But ere a bold foeman should scathe or should scorn her, A thousand true hearts would be cold on the ground. Then up with the Banner, &c. We forget each contention of civil dissension, And hail, like our brethren, Home, Douglas, and Car: And Elliot and Pringle in pastime shall mingle, As welcome in peace as their fathers in war. Then up with the Banner, &c. Then strip, lads, and to it, though sharp be the weather, And if, by mischance, you should happen to fall, There are worse things in life than a tumble on heather, And life is itself but a game at football. Then up with the Banner, &c. And when it is over, we'll drink a blithe measure To each Laird and each Lady that witness'd our fun, And to every blithe heart that took part in our pleasure, To the lads that have lost and the lads that have won. Then up with the Banner, &c. |