Where a slave cannot breathe, or invader presume
To ask for more Earth than will cover his tomb.
Sea land! Free land!
Home of brave men and the girls they adore!
Fearless! Peerless!
Thy land! My land!
Glory be with her, and Peace evermore!
A SONG FOR THE VOLUNTEERS.
COME if you dare, loud vaunting foeman!
Come if you dare to our isles of the sea;
Come if you dare, soldier or yeoman!
We'll give you a welcome befitting the free.
Our rifles are ready, our aim shall be steady,
We'll show you the teeth of the wolf in its lair,
And give the full strength of you
Graves the full length of you;
Yes! every man of you, Come if you dare!
Come if you dare, reivers and raiders!
Come if you dare to our beautiful shore;
Come if you dare, saucy invaders!
Many or few you'll return nevermore.
One purpose shall fire us, one thought shall inspire us,
Each bullet we drive shall be true to a hair;
We'll give the full strength of you
Graves the full length of you,
Yes! every man of you, Come if you dare!
A man may own a large estate,
Have palace, park, and a' that,
And not for birth, but honest worth,
Be thrice a man for a' that.
And Donald herding on the moor,
Who beats his wife and a' that,
Is nothing but a brutal boor,
Nor half a man for a' that.
It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,
The truth is old and a' that,
'The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that.'
And though you'd put the self-same
mark
On copper, brass, and a' that,
The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,
And will not pass for a' that.
For a' that and a' that,
"Tis soul and heart and a' that
That makes the king a gentleman,
And not his crown and a' that.
And whether he be rich or poor,
The best is he for a' that
Who stands erect in self-respect,
And acts the man for a' that.
BONNIE runs the burnie down,
Down the benty hill,
Darting, turning, glinting, spurning
At its own sweet will.
Wandering 'mid the heather bells,
Hiding in the fern,
A creeping, peeping, sweeping, leaping,
Cantie little burn!
Weel I ken the song it sings
A' the day and night,
Wild and gladly, soft and sadly,
In its fresh delight.
Making music as it flows,
At each twist and turn,
Would you know its secret thought?
List, and I'll reveal :
Love's a bliss beyond a blessing,
If the heart be leal.
Nothing in the world's so sweet
As Love that meets return,
Sings the peeping, creeping, leaping,
Bonnie little burn!
SCOTLAND'S NAME AND FAME.
DEAR brother Scots, from John
o' Groats,
To Teviotdale and Yarrow,
And you, who thrive in other lands
Because your own's too narrow,
When round the board kind faces gleam,
And friends are blithe before us,
Be this the toast we honour most,
With 'Auld lang syne' for chorus,—
'Scotland's name! Scotland's fame!
Scotland's place in story!
Scotland's might! Scotland's right,
And immortal glory!'
We'll not forget the present time,
That all too quickly passes,
Our wives and weans, and absent friends,
Brave men, and bonnie lasses,--
But still the toast we'll honour most,
When parting looms before us,
And joining hands in friendship's bands,
We raise the hearty chorus,-
Is-Scotland's name! Scotland's fame!
Scotland's place in story!
Scotland's might! Scotland's right,
And immortal glory!'
UNDAUNTED men of Scotland!
They said our blood was cold,
That nothing now could rouse us
Except the love of gold;
That Trade and Wealth, not Freedom,
Was all our thought and aim,
A creeping, peeping, sweeping, leaping, And all the glory of our sires
Shout forth the bold denial
With hearty British cheers,
And rifle crack-that shall not slack!
So SAY THE VOLUNTEERS.
Undaunted men of Scotland,
If any foe alive
Be fool enough to think so,
Why-let him think-and thrive.
But if his folly lead him
To try us where we stand,
Each man shall be as good as three
To guard his native land.
Come one, come ten, come thousands,
With swords and guns and spears,
Where ten shall come, not two shall go,
So SAY THE VOLUNTEERS!
UNHAPPY LOVE.
Он, ye are dull, ye skies,
A gloom hath o'er you roll'd,
A sorrow on me lies
Too mighty to be told;
The glory of Nature dies,
And all her heart is cold.
He whom I love is false;
The sweetest vow he swore,
His changeful mind recalls
Never, oh, nevermore ;
Day darkens, and life palls
And sickens at its core.
His love's last flickering gleam
In his cold heart has died;
But yet, if I could deem
My passion satisfied
With friendship and esteem,
He'd give me both,' he cried.
Friendship! 'twixt him and me!
It cannot flourish long.
I pass its death's decree;
And all life's pulses strong,
Protest in agony
Against the bitter wrong. I feel its end draw near, I know the coming fate, I will not shed a tear, Though crush'd and desolate; But for his friendship swear, My fierce, undying Hate.
Yes! Hate as strong and true
As was the love I bore:
Hate, in my thought still new,
Shall flourish evermore;
Shall haunt him and pursue,
And shadow him o'er and o'er.
Hate! bitter Hate! alas!
What is such Hate to me?
Were He but kind, I'd pass
From Hate to Ecstasy,
And love him-oh, my soul !
To Love's Eternity.
More than my tongue could tell,
More than my pen could write,
Or fancy syllable
Love true-Love infinite! Kind Heaven! my soul is dark! Oh, lead me to the light!
My fathers toil'd for daily bread,—
I live and love on Labour's fee,
And so, I fear, when all is said,
I'm but a man of low degree. For Pride will flaunt, and Wealth will vaunt,
And say, "This creature's not as we; He labours hard for scant reward; He's but a churl of low degree.'
And yet,-if Wealth will cheat and lie,
And Pride will soil its pedigree,
What right have they to block the way,
And scorn me for my low degree?
I've yet to learn that Wealth can turn
The wrongful to the rightful plea;
Or how a knave-a fool-or slave,
Can be a man of high degree.
If never since my days began
I did the thing that should not be,
Or lied to woman or to man,
I'm not a churl of low degree.
If Honour fire, and Truth inspire,
And Independence make me free,-
Pass, paltry Pride, on t'other side;
I top you with my high degree.
THE BARD'S RECOMPENSE :-LIVING.
WHAT shall we give him who teaches the nations,
And cheers the sad heart with the magic of song,
Now melting to sorrow-subsiding to patience,
Or pealing like thunder in hatred of wrong?
What shall we give him for spreading, like Homer,
A halo of light o'er the land of his birth—
Augmenting its glory, embalming its story,
And sowing its language like seed o'er the earth?
Give him?-The scorn of the rich and exalted!
If virtuous, ignore him; if erring, assail!
Proclaim when he stumbled! make known how he halted,
And point with his follies your venomous tale.
Give him?-Neglect, and a crust for his pittance;
And when he is dead, and his glory lives on,
A stone o'er his grave shall be all the acquittance
The nation shall pay to the greatness that's gone!
And my lyre in the grave unbroken!
There, untouch'd by the plough or harrow,
Let the grave of the Minstrel be,
Where the bank is green and the stream is narrow,
Under the shade of yon tall beech-tree !
|