About Me

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I am Miss Pancake Taylor. I have come from very far away to take care of my family Craig and Zita and Niamh and Emmet. Sometimes I have helpers; my friends the Blackthorn-Badgers. They are very old Scotsmen. I am very glad to meet you.

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

Calum's Dream

    Sometimes there are stories
    That simply must be told,
    O' sorrow,joy an' glories
    Past tae young fae old,
    Here is such a story,
    I'd like tae share wi you,
    About a son o' Raasay,
    An Eilean man sae true,
    He was known as Calum,
    Macleod that was his clan,
    The isle he loved was dyin',
    But Calum had a plan.

CHORUS-
    Calums road aye Calums road,
    Built wi sweat an' toil,
    For future generations,
    An' those driven fae the soil.


    Tae turn the tide o' history,
    As hard as that would seem,
    An' secure the islands future,
    That was Calums dream,
    So in the north at Arnish,
    In nineteen sixty four,
    He began tae dig the land,
    The factor cleared before,
    If he could join the-gether,
    The south end an' the north,
    Maybe life would spring again,
    In the homeland o' his birth?

    Depopulation rife again,
    Never far fae mind,
    If he began tae weaken,
    In God strength he would find,
    Wi barrow,pick an' shovel,
    Workin' night an' day,
    Wi nuthin' but his callus hands,
    Calum cleared the way,
    Six days he'd be workin',
    The saabath rest an' pray,
    Then Calums road completed,
    Two decades past the day.


    Calum died in "88"
    A legend amoung men,
    The self-belief that drove him,
    None would see again,
    But he lived tae see his dream,
    His vision had come true,
    The north o' Raasay breathes again,
    Calum thanks tae you,
    So tae that humble man,
    I dedicate my ode,
    Raise yer glasses tae him,
    Tae Calum an' his road.

    Calums road aye Calums road,
    Built wi sweat an' toil,
    For future generations,
    An' those driven fae the soil,
    Calums road aye Calums road,
    As people come tae view,
    The north o' Raasay breathes again,
    Aye calum thanks tae you!



 1320

Oh the year was 1320
In the Abbey o' Arbroath
When the sons of sovereign Scotland
First took their solemn oath.

For freedom we'll endeavour
For liberty we'll strive
And tae England, No Surrender
While one hundred true Scots survive.

On that glorious occasion
Was Scotland's future writ
Tae foreign domination
We never shall submit

Wi the words o promise spoken
Tae calm our bitter steel
While blades of grass lie broken
Beneath the Saxon heel

And should our chosen fail us
And kneel at London's door
Lest treason should assail us
We shall tak tae the steel once more
Fields O Bannockburn

Twas on a bonnie simmer's day,
me English came in grand array
King Edward's orders to obey ,
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

chorus: Sae loudly let the Pibroch wake
Each loyal Clan frae hill and lake ,
And boldly fight for Scotia's sake
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

King Edward raised his standard high,
Bruce shook his banners in reply -
Each army shouts for victory
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

The English horse wi' deadly aim
Upon the Scottish army came;
But hundrteds in our pits were slain
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

Loud rose the war cry of McNeil,
Who flew like tigers to the field
And made the Sass'nach army feel
There were dauntless hearts at Bannockburn.

McDonald's clan, how firm their pace-
Dark vengeance gleams in ev'ry face,
Lang had they thirsted to embrace
Their Sass'nach friends at Bannockburn.

The Fraser bold his brave clan led,
While wide their thistle banners spread-
They boldly fell and boldly bled
Upon the Field of Bannockburn.

The ne'er behind brave Douglas came,
And also with him Donald Graham,
Their blood-red painted swords did stain
The glorious Field of Bannockburn.

That day King Edward's heart did mourn,
With joy each Scottish heart did burn,
In mem'ry now let us return
Our thanks to Bruce at Bannockburn.
Will Ye go to Sheriffmuir

Will ye go tae Sheriffmuir,
Bauld John o'Innisture,
There tae see the noble Mar
And his Hieland laddies.
A' the true men o' the north,
Angus, Huntly, and Seaforth
Scourin' on tae cross the Forth
Wi' their white cockadies.

There ye'll see the banners flare;
There ye'll hear the bagpipes rare,
And the trumpets' deadly blare
Wi' the cannons' rattle.
There ye'll see the bauld McCraws,
Camerons and Clanranald's raws
And a' the clans, wi' loud huzzas,
Rushin' tae the battle.

There ye'll see the noble Whigs,
A' the heroes o' the brigs,
Raw hides and withered wigs,
Ridin' in array, man.
Ri'en hose and raggit hools,
Sour milk and girnin' gools,
Psalm-beuks and cutty-stools,
We'll see ne'er mair, man.

Will ye go tae Sheriffmuir,
Bauld John o' Innisture,
Sic a day and sic an hour
Ne'er was in the North, man.
Sic can sights will there be seen,
And gin some be nae mista'en,
Fragrant gales will come bedeen,
Frae the waters o' Forth, man. 



Lock the Door, Lariston

Lock the door, Lariston, lion of Liddesdale,
Lock the door, Lariston, Lowther comes on.
The Armstrongs are flying, the widows are crying,
Castletown is burning and Oliver is gone!
Lock the door, Lariston, high on the weather gleam,
See how the Saxon plumes they bob on the sky.
Yeoman and carbinier, billman and halberdier,
Fierce is the foray and far is the cry!

Why d'you smile, noble Elliot o' Lariston?
Why do the joy candles gleam in your eye?
You bold Border ranger, beware of your danger,
Your foes are relentless, determined and nigh!
"I have Mangerton and Ogilvie, Raeburn and Netherbie,
Auld Sim o' Whitram and all his array,
Come all Northumberland, Teesdale and Cumberland
Here at the Breaken Tower end shall the fray."

Scowled the broad sun o'er the links o' green Liddesdale,
Red as the beacon-fires tipped he the wold,
Many a bold martial eye mirrored that morning sky,
Never more oped on its orbit of gold.
See how they wane the proud files o' the Windermere.
Howard! Ah woe tae your hopes o' the day.
Hear the wide welkin rend while the Scots shouts ascend -
"Elliot o' Lariston! Elliot for aye!'
Scotland The Brave
 
Let Italy boast of her gay gilded waters
Her vines and her bowers and her soft sunny skies
Her sons drinking love from the eyes of her daughters
Where freedom expires amid softness and sighs

Scotland's blue mountains wild where hoary cliffs are piled
Towering in grandeur are dearer tae me
Land of the misty cloud land of the tempest loud
Land of the brave and proud land of the free

Enthroned on the peak of her own highland mountains
The spirit of Scotia reigns fearless and free
Her green tartan waving o'er blue rock and fountain
And proudly she sings looking over the sea

Here among my mountains wild I have serenely smiled
When armies and empires against me were hurled
Firm as my native rock I have withstood the shock
Of England, of Denmark, or Rome and the world

But see how proudly her war steeds are prancing
Deep groves of steel trodden down in their path
The eyes of my sons like their bright swords are glancing
Triumphantly riding through ruin and death

Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs
Deep eyed in gore is the green tartan's wave
Shivering are the ranks of steel dire is the horseman's wheel
Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave

Bold hearts and nodding plumes wave o'er their bloody tombs
Deep eyed in gore is the green tartan's wave
Shivering are the ranks of steel dire is the horseman's wheel

Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave
Victorious in battlefield Scotland the brave

John Mcdermott 

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

The Land of Gallant Hearts

    Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
       The land of lovely forms,
    The island of the mountain-harp,
       The torrents and the storms;
    The land that blooms with freeman's tread,
       And withers with the slave's,
    Where far and deep the green woods spread,
       And wild the thistle waves.

    Ere ever Ossian's lofty voice
       Had told of Fingal's fame,
    Ere ever from their native clime
       The Roman eagles came,
    Our land had given heroes birth,
       That durst the boldest brave,
    And taught above tyrannic dust,
       The thistle tufts to wave.

    What need we say how Wallace fought,
       And how his foemen fell?
    Or how on glorious Bannockburn
       The work went wild and well?
    Ours is the land of gallant hearts,
       The land of honour'd graves,
    Whose wreath of fame shall ne'er depart
       While yet the thistle waves.



The Road to the Isles

    The far Cuillins are pullin' me away,
    As take I wi' my crummack to the road.
    The far Cuillins are puttin' love on me,
    As step I wi' the sunlight for my load.

    Chorus:
    Sure by Tummel and Loch Rannoch and Lochaber I will go
    By heather tracks wi' heaven in their wiles.
    If it's thinkin' in your inner heart, the braggart's in my step,
    You've never smelled the tangle o' the Isles.
    Oh the far Cuillins are puttin' love on me,
    As step I wi' my crummack to the Isles.


    It's by Shiel water the track is to the west,
    By Aillort and by Morar to the sea.
    The cool cresses I am thinkin' of for pluck,
    And bracken for a wink on Mother's knee.

    Chorus:

    The blue islands are pullin' me away,
    Their laughter puts the leap upon the lame;
    The blue islands from the Skerries to the Lews,
    Wi' heather honey taste upon each name.



Our Ain Native Land

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
   There's a charm in the words that we a' understand,
That flings o'er the bosom the power of a spell,
   And makes us love mair what we a' love so well.
The heart may have feelings it canna conceal,
   As the mind has the thoughts that nae words can reveal,
But alike he the feelings and thought can command
   Who names but the name o' our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
   Though bleak be its mountains and rugged its strand,
The waves aye seem bless'd, dancing wild o'er the sea,
   When woke by the winds from the hills o' the free.
Our sky oft is dark, and our storms loud and cauld,
   But where are the hearts that sic worth can unfauld
As those that unite, and uniting expand,
   When they hear but the name o' our ain native land?

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
   To hear of her famed ones let none e'er demand,
For the hours o' a' time far too little would prove
   To name but the names that we honour and love.
The bard lives in light, though his heart it be still,
   And the cairn of the warrior stands gray on the hill,
And songster and sage can alike still command
   A garland of fame from our ain native land.

Our ain native land! our ain native land!
   Her wild woods are glorious, her waterfalls grand,
And her songs still proclaim, as they ring through the glen,
   The charms of her maids and the worth of her men.
Her thistle shall cease in the breezes to wave,
   And the floweret to bloom on the patriot's grave,
Ere we cease to defend, with our heart and our hand,
   The freedom and faith of our ain native land.
MacPherson's Lament

Sae wontonly, sae dauntonly,
O rantinly gaed he,
He played a tune an' he danced aroon,
Below the gallers tree.


Chorus
Fare thee weel, you dungeons dark and strong,
Fareweel, fareweel to thee.
Macpherson's rant will ne'er be lang,
On yonder gallers tree.
 


Well the laird o' Grant, you highlan' Saint
That first laid hands on me,
He plead the cause o' Peter Broon,
He watched Macpherson dee.


By a woman's treacherous hand
That I was condemned to dee,
High on a ledge of her window she stood,
And a blanket she threw over me.

Some come here noo tae see me hang
And some to buy my fiddle,
Before I'll pairt wi' thee,
I'll brak' her through the middle.


Come ye loose the bands from off my hands
Bring tae me noo my sword,
There's nae a man in a' Scotland
That'll brave him at his word.

Little did my mother think
When first she cradled me,
That I would turn a rovin' boy
And die upon the gallers tree.

The reprieve was comin' o'er the brig o' Banff,
To set Macpherson free,
They pu' the clock a quarter fast,
And they hanged him to the tree.
O Flower of Scotland

O flower of Scotland
When will we see your like again
That fought and died for
Your wee bit hill and glen
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

The hills are bare now
And autumn leaves lie thick and still
O'er land that is lost now
Which those so dearly held
And stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

Those days are passed now
And in the past they must remain
But we can still rise now
And be the nation again
That stood against him
Proud Edward's army
And sent him homeward
Tae think again

Tuesday, 9 September 2014

Bonny Dundee
 
To the Lords of Convention ’twas Claver’se who spoke.   
‘Ere the King’s crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke;   
So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me,   
Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street,   
The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat;           
But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e’en let him be,   
The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow,   
Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow;           
But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee,   
Thinking luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

With sour-featured Whigs the Grass-market was crammed,   
As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged;           
There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e’e,   
As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears,   
And lang-hafted gullies to kill cavaliers;           
But they shrunk to close-heads and the causeway was free,   
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock,   
And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke;           
‘Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three,   
For the love of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.’   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes—   
‘Where’er shall direct me the shade of Montrose!           
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,   
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

‘There are hills beyond Pentland and lands beyond Forth,   
If there’s lords in the Lowlands, there’s chiefs in the North;           
There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three,   
Will cry hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   
   
‘There’s brass on the target of barkened bull-hide;   
There’s steel in the scabbard that dangles beside;           
The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free,   
At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   

‘Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks—   
Ere I own an usurper, I’ll couch with the fox;           
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,   
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,           
    Come saddle your horses, and call up your men;   
    Come open the West Port and let me gang free,   
    And it’s room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’   
   
He waved his proud hand, the trumpets were blown,   
The kettle-drums clashed and the horsemen rode on,           
Till on Ravelston’s cliffs and on Clermiston’s lee   
Died away the wild war-notes of Bonny Dundee.   
    Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,   
    Come saddle the horses, and call up the men,   
    Come open your gates, and let me gae free,           
    For it’s up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!   

Sir Walter Scott
Alister McAlpine's Lament

The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
Tho' fresh and fair is the gowany lea,
The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
It will ne'er be like my ain countrie.

In the lowlands o' Scotland nae hills are seen
Rising wi' snaw-white taps sae hie,
And the heather is burnt, and the rose it is fa'en,
That bloomed sae sweet in my ain countrie.

The lowlands o' Scotland will ne'er be my hame,
And there's no a hame on earth for me,
The clans are a' broken and I am alane,
Thinking upon my ain countrie.


Allan, Vaughan Williams
A Pict Song

Rome never looks where she treads.
Always her heavy hooves fall
On our stomachs, our hearts or our heads;
And Rome never heeds when we bawl.
Her sentries pass on - that is all,
And we gather behind them in hordes,
And plot to reconquer the Wall,
With only our tongues for our swords.

We are the Little Folk - we!
Too little to love or to hate.
Leave us alone and you'll see
How we can drag down the State!
We are the worm in the wood!
We are the rot at the root!
We are the taint in the blood!
We are the thorn in the foot!

Mistletoe killing an oak -
Rats gnawing cables in two -
Moths making holes in a cloak -
How they must love what they do!
Yes - and we Little Folk too,
We are busy as they -
Working our works out of view -
Watch, and you'll see it some day!

No indeed! We are not strong,
But we know Peoples that are.
Yes, and we'll guide them along
To smash and destroy you in War!
We shall be slaves just the same?
Yes, we have always been slaves,
But you - you will die of the shame,
And then we shall dance on your graves!

We are the Little Folk.

A Jacobite’s Epitaph

TO my true king I offered, free from stain,   
Courage and faith; vain faith, and courage vain.   
For him I threw lands, honours, wealth, away,   
And one dear hope, that was more prized than they.   
For him I languished in a foreign clime,           
Grey-haired with sorrow in my manhood’s prime;   
Heard on Lavernia Scargill’s whispering trees,   
And pined by Arno for my lovelier Tees;   
Beheld each night my home in fevered sleep,   
Each morning started from the dream to weep;           
Till God, who saw me tried too sorely, gave   
The resting-place I asked, an early grave.   
O thou, whom chance leads to this nameless stone,   
From that proud country which was once mine own,   
By those white cliffs I never more must see,           
By that dear language which I spake like thee,   
Forget all feuds, and shed one English tear   
O’er English dust. A broken heart lies here.   

Thomas Babington Macaulay
A Hundred Pipers an all…

Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
O it's owre the border awa', awa'
It's owre the border awa', awa'
We'll on an' we'll march to Carlisle ha'
Wi' its yetts, its castle an' a', an a'.


Chorus:


Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.


O! our sodger lads looked braw, looked braw,
Wi' their tartan kilts an' a', an' a',
Wi' their bonnets an' feathers an' glitt'rin' gear,
An' pibrochs sounding loud and clear.
Will they a' return to their ain dear glen?
Will they a' return oor Heilan' men?
Second sichted Sandy looked fu' wae.
An' mithers grat when they march'd away.


Oh wha' is foremost o' a', o' a',

Bonnie Charlie the King o' us a', hurrah!
Wi' his hundred pipers an' a', an ' a'.
His bonnet and feathers he's waving high,
His prancing steed maist seems to fly,
The nor' win' plays wi' his curly hair,
While the pipers play wi'an unco flare.


The Esk was swollen sae red an' sae deep,
But shouther to shouther the brave lads keep;
Twa thousand swam owre to fell English ground
An' danced themselves dry to the pibroch's sound.
Dumfoun'er'd the English saw, they saw,
Dumfoun'er'd they heard the blaw, the blaw,
Dumfoun'er'd they a' ran awa', awa',


Frae the hundred pipers an' a', an' a'.
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a',
We'll up an' gie them a blaw, a blaw
Wi' a hundred pipers, an' a', an' a'.
     A Hundred Pipers
The Pipes at Lucknow

PIPES of the misty moorlands,   
  Voice of the glens and hills;   
The droning of the torrents,   
  The treble of the rills!   
Not the braes of bloom and heather,          
  Nor the mountains dark with rain,   
Nor maiden bower, nor border tower,   
  Have heard your sweetest strain!   

Dear to the Lowland reaper,   
  And plaided mountaineer,—           
To the cottage and the castle   
  The Scottish pipes and dear;—   
Sweet sounds the ancient pibroch   
  O’er mountain, loch, and glade;   
But the sweetest of all music           
  The pipes at Lucknow played.   

Day by day the Indian tiger   
  Louder yelled, and nearer crept;   
Round and round the jungle-serpent   
  Near and nearer circles swept.           
‘Pray for rescue, wives and mothers,—   
  Pray to-day!’ the soldier said;   
‘To-morrow, death’s between us   
  And the wrong and shame we dread.’   

Oh, they listened, looked, and waited,           
  Till their hope became despair;   
And the sobs of low bewailing   
  Filled the pauses of their prayer.   
Then up spake a Scottish maiden,   
  With her ear unto the ground:           
‘Dinna ye hear it?—dinna ye hear it?   
  The pipes o’ Havelock sound!’   

Hushed the wounded man his groaning;   
  Hushed the wife her little ones;   
Alone they heard the drum-roll           
  And the roar of Sepoy guns.   
But to sounds of home and childhood   
  The Highland ear was true;—   
As her mother’s cradle-crooning   
  The mountain pipes she knew.           

Like the march of soundless music   
  Through the vision of the seer,   
More of feeling than of hearing,   
  Of the heart than of the ear,   
She knew the droning pibroch,           
  She knew the Campbell’s call:   
‘Hark! hear ye no MacGregor’s,   
  The grandest o’ them all!’   

Oh, they listened, dumb and breathless,   
  And they caught the sound at last;           
Faint and far beyond the Goomtee   
  Rose and fell the piper’s blast!   
Then a burst of wild thanksgiving   
  Mingled woman’s voice and man’s;   
‘God be praised!—the march of Havelock!           
  The piping of the clans!’   

Louder, nearer, fierce as vengeance,   
  Sharp and shrill as swords at strife,   
Came the wild MacGregor’s clan-call,   
  Stinging all the air to life.           
But when the far-off dust-cloud   
  To plaided legions grew,   
Full tenderly and blithesomely   
  The pipes of rescue blew!   

Round the silver domes of Lucknow,           
  Moslem mosque and Pagan shrine,   
Breathed the air to Britons dearest,   
  The air of Auld Lang Syne.   
O’er the cruel roll of war-drums   
  Rose that sweet and homelike strain;           
And the tartan clove the turban,   
  As the Goomtee cleaves the plain.   

Dear to the corn-land reaper   
  And plaided mountaineer,—   
To the cottage and the castle           
  The piper’s song is dear.   
Sweet sounds the Gaelic pibroch   
  O’er mountain, glen, and glade;   
But the sweetest of all music   
  The pipes at Lucknow played!           


John Greenleaf Whittier

The Jacobite on Tower Hill

 He tripp’d up the steps with a bow and a smile,   
Offering snuff to the chaplain the while,   
A rose at his button-hole that afternoon—   
’Twas the tenth of the month, and the month it was June.   

Then shrugging his shoulders he look’d at the man           
With the mask and the axe, and a murmuring ran   
Through the crowd, who, below, were all pushing to see   
The gaoler kneel down, and receiving his fee.   

He look’d at the mob, as they roar’d, with a stare,   
And took snuff again with a cynical air.           
“I ’m happy to give but a moment’s delight   
To the flower of my country agog for a sight.”   

Then he look’d at the block, and with scented cravat   
Dusted room for his neck, gaily doffing his hat,   
Kiss’d his hand to a lady, bent low to the crowd,           
Then smiling, turn’d round to the headsman and bow’d.   

“God save King James!” he cried bravely and shrill,   
And the cry reach’d the houses at foot of the hill,   
“My friend, with the axe, à votre service,” he said;   
And ran his white thumb ’long the edge of the blade.           

When the multitude hiss’d he stood firms as a rock;   
Then kneeling, laid down his gay head on the block;   
He kiss’d a white rose,—in a moment ’t was red   
With the life of the bravest of any that bled.

George Walter Thornbury
The Eve of Waterloo

There was a sound of revelry by night,
     And Belgium’s Capital had gathered then
     Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
     The lamps shone o’er fair women and brave men ;
     A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
     Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
     Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again,
     And all went merry as a marriage bell;
But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!

Did ye not hear it?—No; ’twas but the wind,
     Or the car rattling o’er the stony street ;
     On with the dance! let joy be unconfined ;
     No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
     To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet—
     But hark!—that heavy sound breaks in once more,
     As if the clouds its echo would repeat;
     And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!
Arm! Arm! it is—it is—the cannon’s opening roar!

Within a windowed niche of that high hall
     Sate Brunswick’s fated chieftain; he did hear
     That sound the first amidst the festival,
     And caught its tone with Death’s prophetic ear;
     And when they smiled because he deemed it near,
     His heart more truly knew that peal too well
     Which stretched his father on a bloody bier,
     And roused the vengeance blood alone could quell;
He rushed into the field, and, foremost fighting, fell.

Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
     And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
     And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
     Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness;
     And there were sudden partings, such as press
     The life from out young hearts, and choking sighs
     Which ne’er might be repeated; who could guess
     If ever more should meet those mutual eyes,
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn could rise!

And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
     The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
     Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
     And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
     And the deep thunder peal on peal afar;
     And near, the beat of the alarming drum
     Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
     While thronged the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering, with white lips—‘The foe! They come! they come!’

And wild and high the ‘Cameron’s Gathering’ rose!
     The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn’s hills
     Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon foes:—
     How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills,
     Savage and shrill! But with the breath which fills
     Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers
     With the fierce native daring which instils
     The stirring memory of a thousand years,
And Evan’s, Donald’s fame rings in each clansman’s ears!

And Ardennes waves above them her green leaves,
     Dewy with nature’s tear-drops, as they pass,
     Grieving, if aught inanimate e’er grieves,
     Over the unreturning brave,—alas!
     Ere evening to be trodden like the grass
     Which now beneath them, but above shall grow
     In its next verdure, when this fiery mass
     Of living valour, rolling on the foe
And burning with high hope, shall moulder cold and low.

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life,
     Last eve in Beauty’s circle proudly gay,
     The midnight brought the signal-sound of strife,
     The morn the marshalling in arms,—the day
     Battle’s magnificently-stern array!
     The thunder-clouds close o’er it, which when rent
     The earth is covered thick with other clay
     Which her own clay shall cover, heaped and pent,
Rider and horse,—friend, foe,—in one red burial blent!



 Lord Byron
The Haggis of Private McPhee


    "Hae ye heard whit ma auld mither's postit tae me?
    It fair maks me hamesick," says Private McPhee.
    "And whit did she send ye?" says Private McPhun,
    As he cockit his rifle and bleezed at a Hun.
    "A haggis! A HAGGIS!" says Private McPhee;
    "The brawest big haggis I ever did see.
    And think! it's the morn when fond memory turns
    Tae haggis and whuskey -- the Birthday o' Burns.
    We maun find a dram; then we'll ca' in the rest
    O' the lads, and we'll hae a Burns' Nicht wi' the best."

    "Be ready at sundoon," snapped Sergeant McCole;
    "I want you two men for the List'nin' Patrol."
    Then Private McPhee looked at Private McPhun:
    "I'm thinkin', ma lad, we're confoundedly done."
    Then Private McPhun looked at Private McPhee:
    "I'm thinkin' auld chap, it's a' aff wi' oor spree."
    But up spoke their crony, wee Wullie McNair:
    "Jist lea' yer braw haggis for me tae prepare;
    And as for the dram, if I search the camp roun',
    We maun hae a drappie tae jist haud it doon.
    Sae rin, lads, and think, though the nicht it be black,
    O' the haggis that's waitin' ye when ye get back."

    My! but it wis waesome on Naebuddy's Land,
    And the deid they were rottin' on every hand.
    And the rockets like corpse candles hauntit the sky,
    And the winds o' destruction went shudderin' by.
    There wis skelpin' o' bullets and skirlin' o' shells,
    And breengin' o' bombs and a thoosand death-knells;
    But cooryin' doon in a Jack Johnson hole
    Little fashed the twa men o' the List'nin' Patrol.
    For sweeter than honey and bricht as a gem
    Wis the thocht o' the haggis that waitit for them.

    Yet alas! in oor moments o' sunniest cheer
    Calamity's aften maist cruelly near.
    And while the twa talked o' their puddin' divine
    The Boches below them were howkin' a mine.
    And while the twa cracked o' the feast they would hae,
    The fuse it wis burnin' and burnin' away.
    Then sudden a roar like the thunner o' doom,
    A hell-leap o' flame . . . then the wheesht o' the tomb.

    "Haw, Jock! Are ye hurtit?" says Private McPhun.
    "Ay, Geordie, they've got me; I'm fearin' I'm done.
    It's ma leg; I'm jist thinkin' it's aff at the knee;
    Ye'd best gang and leave me," says Private McPhee.
    "Oh leave ye I wunna," says Private McPhun;
    "And leave ye I canna, for though I micht run,
    It's no faur I wud gang, it's no muckle I'd see:
    I'm blindit, and that's whit's the maitter wi' me."
    Then Private McPhee sadly shakit his heid:
    "If we bide here for lang, we'll be bidin' for deid.
    And yet, Geordie lad, I could gang weel content
    If I'd tasted that haggis ma auld mither sent."
    "That's droll," says McPhun; "ye've jist speakit ma mind.
    Oh I ken it's a terrible thing tae be blind;
    And yet it's no that that embitters ma lot --
    It's missin' that braw muckle haggis ye've got."

    For a while they were silent; then up once again
    Spoke Private McPhee, though he whussilt wi' pain:
    "And why should we miss it? Between you and me
    We've legs for tae run, and we've eyes for tae see.
    You lend me your shanks and I'll lend you ma sicht,
    And we'll baith hae a kyte-fu' o' haggis the nicht."

    Oh the sky it wis dourlike and dreepin' a wee,
    When Private McPhun gruppit Private McPhee.
    Oh the glaur it wis fylin' and crieshin' the grun',
    When Private McPhee guidit Private McPhun.
    "Keep clear o' them corpses -- they're maybe no deid!
    Haud on! There's a big muckle crater aheid.
    Look oot! There's a sap; we'll be haein' a coup.
    A staur-shell! For Godsake! Doun, lad, on yer daup.
    Bear aff tae yer richt. . . . Aw yer jist daein' fine:
    Before the nicht's feenished on haggis we'll dine."

    There wis death and destruction on every hand;
    There wis havoc and horror on Naebuddy's Land.
    And the shells bickered doun wi' a crump and a glare,
    And the hameless wee bullets were dingin' the air.
    Yet on they went staggerin', cooryin' doun
    When the stutter and cluck o' a Maxim crept roun'.
    And the legs o' McPhun they were sturdy and stoot,
    And McPhee on his back kept a bonnie look-oot.
    "On, on, ma brave lad! We're no faur frae the goal;
    I can hear the braw sweerin' o' Sergeant McCole."

    But strength has its leemit, and Private McPhun,
    Wi' a sab and a curse fell his length on the grun'.
    Then Private McPhee shoutit doon in his ear:
    "Jist think o' the haggis! I smell it from here.
    It's gushin' wi' juice, it's embaumin' the air;
    It's steamin' for us, and we're -- jist -- aboot -- there."

    Then Private McPhun answers: "Dommit, auld chap!
    For the sake o' that haggis I'll gang till I drap."
    And he gets on his feet wi' a heave and a strain,
    And onward he staggers in passion and pain.
    And the flare and the glare and the fury increase,
    Till you'd think they'd jist taken a' hell on a lease.
    And on they go reelin' in peetifu' plight,
    And someone is shoutin' away on their right;
    And someone is runnin', and noo they can hear
    A sound like a prayer and a sound like a cheer;
    And swift through the crash and the flash and the din,
    The lads o' the Hielands are bringin' them in.

    "They're baith sairly woundit, but is it no droll
    Hoo they rave aboot haggis?" says Sergeant McCole.
    When hirplin alang comes wee Wullie McNair,
    And they a' wonnert why he wis greetin' sae sair.
    And he says: "I'd jist liftit it oot o' the pot,
    And there it lay steamin' and savoury hot,
    When sudden I dooked at the fleech o' a shell,
    And it -- dropped on the haggis and dinged it tae hell."

    And oh but the lads were fair taken aback;
    Then sudden the order wis passed tae attack,
    And up from the trenches like lions they leapt,
    And on through the nicht like a torrent they swept.
    On, on, wi' their bayonets thirstin' before!
    On, on tae the foe wi' a rush and a roar!
    And wild to the welkin their battle-cry rang,
    And doon on the Boches like tigers they sprang:
    And there wisna a man but had death in his ee,
    For he thocht o' the haggis o' Private McPhee.

Robert Service
The Battle of Otterburn
   
It fell about the Lammas tide,
When the muir-men win their hay,
The doughty Douglas bound him to ride
Into England, to drive a prey.

He chose the Gordons and the Graemes,
With them the Lindesays, light and gay;
But the Jardines wald nor with him ride,
And they rue it to this day.

And he has burn'd the dales of Tyne,
And part of Bambrough shire:
And three good towers on Reidswire fells,
He left them all on fire.

And he march'd up to Newcastle,
And rode it round about:
"O wha's the lord of this castle?
Or wha's the lady o't ?"

But up spake proud Lord Percy then,
And O but he spake hie!
"I am the lord of this castle,
My wife's the lady gaye."

"If thou'rt the lord of this castle,
Sae weel it pleases me!
For, ere I cross the Border fells,
The tane of us sall die."

He took a lang spear in his hand,
Shod with the metal free,
And for to meet the Douglas there,
He rode right furiouslie.

But O how pale his lady look'd,
Frae aff the castle wa',
When down, before the Scottish spear,
She saw proud Percy fa'.

"Had we twa been upon the green,
And never an eye to see,
I wad hae had you, flesh and fell;
But your sword sall gae wi' mee."

"But gae ye up to Otterbourne,
And wait there dayis three;
And, if I come not ere three day is end,
A fause knight ca' ye me."

"The Otterbourne's a bonnie burn;
'Tis pleasant there to be;
But there is nought at Otterbourne,
To feed my men and me.

"The deer rins wild on hill and dale,
The birds fly wild from tree to tree;
But there is neither bread nor kale,
To feed my men and me.

"Yet I will stay it Otterbourne,
Where you shall welcome be;
And, if ye come not at three day is end,
A fause lord I'll ca' thee."

"Thither will I come," proud Percy said,
"By the might of Our Ladye!" -
"There will I bide thee," said the Douglas,
"My troth I plight to thee."

They lighted high on Otterbourne,
Upon the bent sae brown;
They lighted high on Otterbourne,
And threw their pallions down.

And he that had a bonnie boy,
Sent out his horse to grass,
And he that had not a bonnie boy,
His ain servant he was.

But up then spake a little page,
Before the peep of dawn:
"O waken ye, waken ye, my good lord,
For Percy's hard at hand."

"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liar loud!
Sae loud I hear ye lie;
For Percy had not men yestreen,
To fight my men and me.


"But I have dream'd a dreary dream,
Beyond the Isle of Skye;
I saw a dead man win a fight,
And I think that man was I."

He belted on his guid braid sword,
And to the field he ran;
But he forgot the helmet good,
That should have kept his brain.

When Percy wi the Douglas met,
I wat he was fu fain!
They swakked their swords, till sair they swat,
And the blood ran down like rain.

But Percy with his good broad sword,
That could so sharply wound,
Has wounded Douglas on the brow,
Till he fell to the ground.

Then he calld on his little foot-page,
And said - "Run speedilie,
And fetch my ain dear sister's son,
Sir Hugh Montgomery.

"My nephew good," the Douglas said,
"What recks the death of ane!
Last night I dreamd a dreary dream,
And I ken the day's thy ain.

"My wound is deep; I fain would sleep;
Take thou the vanguard of the three,
And hide me by the braken bush,
That grows on yonder lilye lee.

"O bury me by the braken-bush,
Beneath the blooming brier;
Let never living mortal ken
That ere a kindly Scot lies here."

He lifted up that noble lord,
Wi the saut tear in his e'e;
He hid him in the braken bush,
That his merrie men might not see.

The moon was clear, the day drew near,
The spears in flinders flew,
But mony a gallant Englishman
Ere day the Scotsmen slew.

The Gordons good, in English blood,
They steepd their hose and shoon;
The Lindesays flew like fire about,
Till all the fray was done.

The Percy and Montgomery met,
That either of other were fain;
They swapped swords, and they twa swat,
And aye the blood ran down between.

"Yield thee, now yield thee, Percy," he said,
"Or else I vow I'll lay thee low!"
"To whom must I yield," quoth Earl Percy,
"Now that I see it must be so ?"

"Thou shalt not yield to lord nor loun,
Nor yet shalt thou yield to me;
But yield thee to the braken-bush,
That grows upon yon lilye lee!"

"I will not yield to a braken-bush,
Nor yet will I yield to a brier;
But I would yield to Earl Douglas,
Or Sir Hugh the Montgomery, if he were here."

As soon as he knew it was Montgomery,
He stuck his sword's point in the gronde;
The Montgomery was a courteous knight,
And quickly took him by the honde.

This deed was done at Otterbourne,
About the breaking of the day;
Earl Douglas was buried at the braken bush,
And the Percy led captive away.



Anonymous
The Ballad Of How Macpherson Held The Floor


Said President MacConnachie to Treasurer MacCall:
"We ought to have a piper for our next Saint Andrew's Ball.
Yon squakin' saxophone gives me the syncopated gripes.
I'm sick of jazz, I want to hear the skirling of the pipes."
"Alas! it's true," said Tam MacCall. "The young folk of to-day
Are fox-trot mad and dinna ken a reel from Strathspey.
Now, what we want's a kiltie lad, primed up wi' mountain dew,
To strut the floor at supper time, and play a lilt or two.
In all the North there's only one; of him I've heard them speak:
His name is Jock MacPherson, and he lives on Boulder Creek;
An old-time hard-rock miner, and a wild and wastrel loon,
Who spends his nights in glory, playing pibrochs to the moon.
I'll seek him out; beyond a doubt on next Saint Andrew's night
We'll proudly hear the pipes to cheer and charm our appetite.

Oh lads were neat and lassies sweet who graced Saint Andrew's Ball;
But there was none so full of fun as Treasurer MacCall.
And as Maloney's rag-time bank struck up the newest hit,
He smiled a smile behind his hand, and chuckled: "Wait a bit."
And so with many a Celtic snort, with malice in his eye,
He watched the merry crowd cavort, till supper time drew nigh.
Then gleefully he seemed to steal, and sought the Nugget Bar,
Wherein there sat a tartaned chiel, as lonely as a star;
A huge and hairy Highlandman as hearty as a breeze,
A glass of whisky in his hand, his bag-pipes on his knees.
"Drink down your doch and doris, Jock," cried Treasurer MacCall;
"The time is ripe to up and pipe; they wait you in the hall.
Gird up your loins and grit your teeth, and here's a pint of hooch
To mind you of your native heath - jist pit it in your pooch.
Play on and on for all you're worth; you'll shame us if you stop.
Remember you're of Scottish birth - keep piping till you drop.
Aye, though a bunch of Willie boys should bluster and implore,
For the glory of the Highlands, lad, you've got to hold the floor."
The dancers were at supper, and the tables groaned with cheer,
When President MacConnachie exclaimed: "What do I hear?
Methinks it's like a chanter, and its coming from the hall."
"It's Jock MacPherson tuning up," cried Treasurer MacCall.
So up they jumped with shouts of glee, and gaily hurried forth.
Said they: "We never thought to see a piper in the North."
Aye, all the lads and lassies braw went buzzing out like bees,
And Jock MacPherson there they saw, with red and rugged knees.
Full six foot four he strode the floor, a grizzled son of Skye,
With glory in his whiskers and with whisky in his eye.
With skelping stride and Scottish pride he towered above them all:
"And is he no' a bonny sight?" said Treasurer MacCall.
While President MacConnachie was fairly daft with glee,
And there was jubilation in the Scottish Commy-tee.
But the dancers seemed uncertain, and they signified their doubt,
By dashing back to eat as fast as they had darted out.
And someone raised the question 'twixt the coffee and the cakes:
"Does the Piper walk to get away from all the noise he makes?"
Then reinforced with fancy food they slowly trickled forth,
And watching in patronizing mood the Piper of the North.

Proud, proud was Jock MacPherson, as he made his bag-pipes skirl,
And he set his sporran swinging, and he gave his kilts a whirl.
And President MacConnachie was jumping like a flea,
And there was joy and rapture in the Scottish Commy-tee.
"Jist let them have their saxophones wi' constipated squall;
We're having Heaven's music now," said Treasurer MacCall.
But the dancers waxed impatient, and they rather seemed to fret
For Maloney and the jazz of his Hibernian Quartette.
Yet little recked the Piper, as he swung with head on high,
Lamenting with MacCrimmon on the heather hills of Skye.
With Highland passion in his heart he held the centre floor;
Aye, Jock MacPherson played as he had never played before.

Maloney's Irish melodists were sitting in their place,
And as Maloney waited, there was wonder in his face.
'Twas sure the gorgeous music - Golly! wouldn't it be grand
If he could get MacPherson as a member of his band?
But the dancers moped and mumbled, as around the room they sat:
"We paid to dance," they grumbled; "But we cannot dance to that.
Of course we're not denying that it's really splendid stuff;
But it's mighty satisfying - don't you think we've had enough?"
"You've raised a pretty problem," answered Treasurer MacCall;
"For on Saint Andrew's Night, ye ken, the Piper rules the Ball."
Said President MacConnachie: "You've said a solemn thing.
Tradition holds him sacred, and he's got to have his fling.
But soon, no doubt, he'll weary out. Have patience; bide a wee."
"That's right. Respect the Piper," said the Scottish Commy-tee.

And so MacPherson stalked the floor, and fast the moments flew,
Till half an hour went past, as irritation grew and grew.
Then the dancers held a council, and with faces fiercely set,
They hailed Maloney, heading his Hibernian Quartette:
"It's long enough, we've waited. Come on, Mike, play up the Blues."
And Maloney hesitated, but he didn't dare refuse.
So banjo and piano, and guitar and saxophone
Contended with the shrilling of the chanter and the drone;
And the women's ears were muffled, so infernal was the din,
But MacPherson was unruffled, for he knew that he would win.
Then two bright boys jazzed round him, and they sought to play the clown,
But MacPherson jolted sideways, and the Sassenachs went down.
And as if it was a signal, with a wild and angry roar,
The gates of wrath were riven - yet MacPherson held the floor.

Aye, amid the rising tumult, still he strode with head on high,
With ribbands gaily streaming, yet with battle in his eye.
Amid the storm that gathered, still he stalked with Highland pride,
While President and Treasurer sprang bravely to his side.
And with ire and indignation that was glorious to see,
Around him in a body ringed the Scottish Commy-tee.
Their teeth were clenched with fury; their eyes with anger blazed:
"Ye manna touch the Piper," was the slogan that they raised.
Then blows were struck, and men went down; yet 'mid the rising fray
MacPherson towered in triumph - and he never ceased to play.

Alas! his faithful followers were but a gallant few,
And faced defeat, although they fought with all the skill they knew.
For President MacConnachie was seen to slip and fall,
And o'er his prostrate body stumbled Treasurer MacCall.
And as their foes with triumph roared, and leagured them about,
It looked as if their little band would soon be counted out.
For eyes were black and noses red, yet on that field of gore,
As resolute as Highland rock - MacPherson held the floor.

Maloney watched the battle, and his brows were bleakly set,
While with him paused and panted his Hibernian Quartette.
For sure it is an evil spite, and breaking to the heart,
For Irishman to watch a fight and not be taking part.
Then suddenly on high he soared, and tightened up his belt:
"And shall we see them crush," he roared, "a brother and a Celt?
A fellow artiste needs our aid. Come on, boys, take a hand."
Then down into the mêlée dashed Maloney and his band.

Now though it was Saint Andrew's Ball, yet men of every race,
That bow before the Great God Jazz were gathered in that place.
Yea, there were those who grunt: "Ya! Ya!" and those who squeak: "We! We!"
Likewise Dutch, Dago, Swede and Finn, Polack and Portugee.
Yet like ripe grain before the gale that national hotch-potch
Went down before the fury of the Irish and the Scotch.
Aye, though they closed their gaping ranks and rallied to the fray,
To the Shamrock and the Thistle went the glory of the day.

You should have seen the carnage in the drooling light of dawn,
Yet 'mid the scene of slaughter Jock MacPherson playing on.
Though all lay low about him, yet he held his head on high,
And piped as if he stood upon the caller crags of Skye.
His face was grim as granite, and no favour did he ask,
Though weary were his mighty lungs and empty was his flask.
And when a fallen foe wailed out: "Say! when will you have done?"
MacPherson grinned and answered: "Hoots! She's only ha'f begun."
Aye, though his hands were bloody, and his knees were gay with gore,
A Grampian of Highland pride - MacPherson held the floor.

And still in Yukon valleys where the silent peaks look down,
They tell of how the Piper was invited up to town,
And he went in kilted glory, and he piped before them all,
But wouldn't stop his piping till he busted up the Ball.
Of that Homeric scrap they speak, and how the fight went on,
With sally and with rally till the breaking of the dawn.
And how the Piper towered like a rock amid the fray,
And the battle surged about him, but he never ceased to play.
Aye, by the lonely camp-fires, still they tell the story o'er-
How the Sassenach was vanquished and - MacPherson held the floor.


by Robert Service

Robert Bruce’s March to Bannockburn

Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,   
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led,   
Welcome to your gory bed,   
            Or to Victorie!   

Now’s the day, and now’s the hour;           
See the front o’ battle lour;   
See approach proud Edward's power—   
            Chains and Slaverie!   

Wha will be a traitor knave?   
Wha can fill a coward’s grave?           
Wha sae base as be a Slave?   
            Let him turn and flee!   

Wha, for Scotland’s King and Law,   
Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,   
Freeman stand, or freeman fall,           
            Let him on wi’ me!   

By Oppression’s woes and pains!   
By your Sons in servile chains!   
We will drain our dearest veins,   
            But they shall be free!           

Lay the proud Usurpers low!   
Tyrants fall in every foe!   
Liberty's in every blow!—   
            Let us Do or Die!   

R Burns
My Heart's in the Highlands

My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here;
My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe –
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birthpace of valour, the country of worth
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
 
Farewell to the mountains high cover’d with snow;
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods;
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
 

Robert Burns
Lochinvar

OH! young Lochinvar is come out of the west,   
Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;   
And save his good broadsword he weapons had none.   
He rode all unarmed and he rode all alone.   
So faithful in love and so dauntless in war,           
There never was knight like the young Lochinvar.   

He stayed not for brake and he stopped not for stone,   
He swam the Eske river where ford there was none,   
But ere he alighted at Netherby gate   
The bride had consented, the gallant came late:           
For a laggard in love and a dastard in war   
Was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lochinvar.   

So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall,   
Among bridesmen, and kinsmen, and brothers, and all:   
Then spoke the bride’s father, his hand on his sword,—           
For the poor craven bridegroom said never a word,—   
‘Oh! come ye in peace here, or come ye in war,   
Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?’—   

‘I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied;   
Love swells like the Solway, but ebbs like its tide—           
And now am I come, with this lost love of mine,   
To lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine.   
There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far,   
That would gladly be bride to the young Lochinvar.’   

The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,           
He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup,   
She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,   
With a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye.   
He took her soft hand ere her mother could bar,—   
‘Now tread we a measure!’ said young Lochinvar.           

So stately his form, and so lovely her face,   
That never a hall such a galliard did grace;   
While her mother did fret, and her father did fume,   
And the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume;   
And the bride-maidens whispered ‘’Twere better by far           
To have matched our fair cousin with young Lochinvar.’   

One touch to her hand and one word in her ear,   
When they reached the hall-door, and the charger stood near;   
So light to the croupe the fair lady he swung,   
So light to the saddle before her he sprung!           
‘She is won! we are gone, over bank, bush, and scaur;   
They’ll have fleet steeds that follow,’ quoth young Lochinvar.   

There was mounting ’mong Graemes of the Netherby clan;   
Fosters, Fenwicks, and Musgraves, they rode and they ran:   
There was racing and chasing on Cannobie Lee,           
But the lost bride of Netherby ne’er did they see.   
So daring in love and so dauntless in war,   
Have ye e’er heard of gallant like young Lochinvar?   

Sir Walter Scott 


MACGREGOR'S GATHERING


       The moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae,
     And the Clan has a name that is nameless by day;
           Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
           Gather, gather, gather.

       Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew,
     Must be heard but by night in our vengeful haloo!
           Then haloo, Grigalach! haloo, Grigalach!
           Haloo, haloo, haloo, Grigalach.

       Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers,
   Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours;
         We're landless, landless, landless, Grigalach!
         Landless, landless, landless.

     But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord.
   MacGregor has still both his heart and his sword!
         Then courage, courage, courage, Grigalach!
         Courage, courage, courage.

     If they rob us of name, and pursue us with beagles,
   Give their roofs to the flame, and their flesh to the eagles!
   Then vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, Grigalach!
   Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance.

    While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river,
   MacGregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever!
         Come then, Grigalach, come then, Grigalach,
         Come then, come then, come then.

     Through the depths of Loch Katrine the steed shall career,
   O'er the peak of Ben-Lomond the galley shall steer,
   And the rocks of Craig-Royston like icicles melt,
   Ere our wrongs be forgot, or our vengeance unfelt!
         Then gather, gather, gather, Grigalach!
         Gather, gather, gather.
Bruce and the Spider

FOR Scotland's and for freedom's right
The Bruce his part had played,
In five successive fields of fight
Been conqured and dismayed;
Once more against the English host
His band he led, and once more lost
The meed for which he fought;
And now from battle, faint and worn,
The homeless fugitive forlorn
A hut's lone shelter sought.
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.
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.
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.
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 Barton