Right where his charge had made a lane, His valiant comrades burst, With sword, and axe, and partizan, And hack, and stab, and thrust. The daunted Lion 'gan to whine, And granted ground amain, The mountain Bull, he bent his brows, And gored his sides again. Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, The cloister vaults at Konigsfield It was the Archduke Leopold, But he came against the Switzer churls, The heifer said unto the bull, << And shall I not complain? There came a foreign nobleman To milk me on the plain. << One thrust of thine outrageous horn An Austrian noble left the stour, And fast the flight 'gan take; And he arrived in luckless hour At Sempach on the lake. He and his squire a fisher call'd (His name was Hans Von Rot), « For love, or meed, or charity, Receive us in thy boat.>> Their anxious call the fisher heard, And while against the tide and wind The fisher's back was to them turn'd, He 'whelm'd the boat, and as they strove, «Two gilded fishes in the lake This morning have I caught, Their silver scales may much avail, Their carrion flesh is naught.» A pun on the URUS, or wild bull, which gives name to the can ton of Uri. THE original of these verses occurs in a collection of German popular songs, entitled Sammlung Deutschen Volkslieder, Berlin, 1807, published by Messrs Busching and Von der Hagen, both, and more especially the last, distinguished for their acquaintance with the ancient popular poetry and legendary history of Germany. In the German editor's notice of the ballad, it is stated to have been extracted from a manuscript Chronicle of Nicolaus Thomann, chaplain to St Leonard in Weisenhorn, which bears the date 1533; and the song is stated by the author to have been generally sung in the neighbourhood at that early period. Thomann, as quoted by the German editor, seems faithfully to have believed the event he narrates. He quotes tombstones and obituaries to prove the existence of the personages of the ballad, and discovers that there actually died on the 11th May, 1349, a Lady Von Neuffen, Countess of Marstetten, who was by birth of the house of Moringer. This lady he supposes to have been Moringer's daughter mentioned in the ballad. He quotes the same authority for the death of Berckhold Von Neuffen in the same year. The editors, on the whole, seem to embrace the opinion of Professor Smith, of Ulm, who, from the language of the ballad, ascribes its date to the 15th century. The legend itself turns on an incident not peculiar to Germany, and which perhaps was not unlikely to hap pen in more instances than one, when crusaders abode long in the Holy Land, and their disconsolate dames received no tidings of their fate. A story very similar in circumstances, but without the miraculous machinery of Saint Thomas, is told of one of the ancient lords of Haigh-hall, in Lancashire, the patrimonial inheritance of the late Countess of Balcarras; and the particulars are represented on stained glass upon a window in that ancient manor-house. I. O, WILL you hear a knightly tale Of old Bohemian day, It was the noble Moringer In wedlock bed he lay; He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, That was as sweet as May, And said, Now, lady of my heart, II. «T is I have vow'd a pilgrimage Unto a distant shrine, And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, And leave the land that 's mine; Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, So thou wilt pledge thy fay, That thou for my return wilt wait Seven twelvemonths and a day.»> III. Then out and spoke that lady bright, Sore troubled in her cheer, « Now, tell me true, thou noble knight, What order takest thou here; And who shall lead thy vassal band, IV. Out spoke the noble Moringer, The trustiest shall rule my land, And be a guardian tried and true V. «< As Christian man, I needs must keep And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, But grant thy Moringer his leave, It was the noble Moringer From bed he made him bowne, And met him there his chamberlain, With ewer and with gown: He flung the mantle on his back, 'T was furr'd with miniver, He dipp'd his hand in water cold, And bathed his forehead fair. << Now hear," he said, «Sir Chamberlain, True vassal art thou mine, And such the trust that I repose In that proved worth of thine, For seven years shalt thou rule my towers, And pledge thee for my lady's faith VIII. The chamberlain was blunt and true, And sturdily said he, « Abide, my lord, and rule your own, The noble baron turn'd him round, To whom he spoke right anxiously, When I am o'er the sea? X. «To watch and ward my castle strong, And to protect my land, And to the hunting or the host To lead my vassal band; XI. Marstetten's heir was kind and true, With too presumptuous tongue, « My noble lord, cast care away, And on your journey wend, And trust this charge to me until Your pilgrimage have end. XII. Rely upon my plighted faith, To guard your lands, and ward your towers, And for your lovely lady's faith, So virtuous and so dear, I'll gage my head it knows no change, XIII. The noble Moringer took cheer When thus he beard him speak, And doubt forsook his troubled brow, And sorrow left his cheek; A long adieu he bids to all- XIV. It was the noble Moringer Within an orchard slept, When on the baron's slumbering sense A boding vision crept; And whisper'd in his ear a voice, «'T is time, Sir Knight, to wake, Thy lady and thine heritage Another master take. He leant upon his pilgrim staff, « Good friend, for charity, Tell a poor palmer in your land What tidings may there be?»> XXI. The miller answer'd him again, « He knew of little news, Save that the lady of the land Did a new bridegroom chuse; Her husband died in distant land, Such is the constant word, His death sits heavy on our souls, He was a worthy lord. XXII. Of him I held the little mill Which wins me living free, God rest the baron in his grave, He still was kind to me; And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, And millers take their toll, The priest that prays for Moringer It was the noble Moringer And stood before the bolted gate A woe and weary man; « Now help me, every saint in heaven, To gain the entrance of my hall, XXIV. His very knock it sounded sad, His call was sad and slow, For heart and head, and voice and hand, Were heavy all with woe; And to the warder thus he spoke : A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land XXV. « I've wander'd many a weary step, I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, It was the stalwart warder then « A pilgrim worn and travel-toil'd And prays, for sweet Saint-Thomas' sake, The lady's gentle heart was moved, « And bid the wanderer welcome be To banquet and to bed; And since he names my husband's name, So that he lists to stay, These towers shall be his harbourage A twelvemonth and a day.» XXVII. It was the stalwart warder then Undid the portal broad, It was the noble Moringer That o'er the threshold strode; <«< And have thou thanks, kind Heaven,» he said, Though from a man of sin, That the true lord stands here once more His castle gate within.»> « Lay shalm and harp aside; Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, The castle's rule to hold; And well his guerdon will I pay « Chill flows the lay of frozen age,» And by my side as fair a bride, With all her charms, was mine. << But time traced furrows on my face, For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, And mingle with your bridal mirth XXXVI. Then to the cup-bearer he said, «Do me one kindly deed, And should my better days return, Full rich shall be thy meed; Bear back the golden cup again To yonder bride so gay, And crave her, of her courtesy, XXXVII. The cup-bearer was courtly bred, «Lady,» he said, « your reverend guest XXXVIII. The ring hath caught the lady's eye, Then might you hear her shriek aloud, « The Moringer is here!»> Then might you see her start from seat, But whether 't was for joy or woe, XXXIX. But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, Before the midnight hour; And loud she utter'd vow on vow, That never was there bride That had like her preserved her troth, Or been so sorely tried. XL. «Yes, here I claim the praise,» she said, «To constant matrons due, Who keep the troth that they have plight So stedfastly and true; For count the term howe'er you will, XLI. It was Marstetten then rose up, He kneel'd before the Moringer, « Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, And take thy vassal's head.» XLII. The noble Moringer he smiled, « He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd I give her for the bride you lose, Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms? Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general conquest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, The taking in of some rebellious lord, Or making head against a slight commotion, The gods we worship, and, next these, our honours, It must not be. -No! as they are our foes, Let's use the peace of honour-that's fair dealing; Bonduca. 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 Honourable 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.n Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn; And, foaming, gnaw the chain;— O! had they mark'd the avenging call' Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land 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 Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; High sounds our bugle call; The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss Guards, on the fatal 10th August, 1792. It is painful, but not useless, to remark, that the passive temper with which the Swiss regarded the death of their bravest countrymen, mercilessly slaughtered in discharge of their duty, encouraged and authorized the progressive injustice by which the Alps, once the seat of the most virtuous and free people upon the Continent, have, at length, been converted into the citadel of a foreign and military despot. A state degraded is half enslaved. |