"Right heavily upon your head He'll lay his hand of steel; And with his trusty partizan Your absolution deal." 'Twas on a Monday morning then, The corn was steep'd in dew, And merry maids had sickels ta'en, When the host to Sempach drew. The stalwart men of fair Lucerne Together have they join'd; The pith and core of manhood sternWas none cast looks behind. It was the Lord of Hare castle, "Yon little band of brethren true Will meet us undismay'd." "O Hare-castle, thou heart of hare !" Fierce Oxenstern replied; "Shalt see then how the game will fare," The taunting knight replied. There was lacing then of helmets bright, And closing ranks amain; The peaks they hew'd from their boot-points And thus they to each other said, The gallant Swiss confederates there, And he display'd his rainbow fair Then heart and pulse throbb'd more and more With courage firm and high, And down the good confederates bore On the Austrian chivalry. The Austrian liont 'gan to growl, And toss his main and tail; And ball, and shaft, and crossbow bolt Went whistling forth like hail. Lance, pike, and halberd, mingled there, The Austrian men-at-arms stood fast, In the original, Haasenstein, or Hare-stone. This seems to allude to the preposterous fashion, during the middle ages, of wearing boots with the points or peaks turned upwards, and so long that, in some cases, they were fastened to the knees of the wearer with small chains. When they alighted to fight upon foot, it would seem that the Austrian gentlemen found it necessary to cut off these peaks, that they might move with the necessary activity. A pun on the archduke's name, Leopold. "I have a virtuous wife at home, A wife and infant son; I leave them to my country's care- "These nobles lay their spears right thick, And keep full firm array, Yet shall my charge their order break, He rush'd against the Austrian band, And with his body, breast, and hand, Four lances splinter'd on his crest, Six shiver'd in his side; Still on the serried files he press'd- This patriot's self-devoted deed Right where his charge had made a lane, And hack, and stab, and thrust. The daunted lion 'gan to whine, And granted ground amain; Then lost was banner, spear, and shield, It was the Archduke Leopold, So lordly would he ride, But he came against the Switzer churls, And they slew him in his pride. 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, He and his squire a fisher call'd, Their anxious call the fisher heard, A pun on the Urus, or wild bull, which gives name to the canton of Uri. His shallop to the shore he steer'd, And while against the tide and wind He should the boatman slay. The fisher's back was to them turn'd, Hans saw his shadow in the lake, The boat he overthrew. 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, It was a messenger of wo Has sought the Austrian land; "Ah! gracious lady, evil news! My lord lies on the strand. "At Sempach, on the battle field, His bloody corpse lies there." Now would you know the minstrel wight, A merry man was he, I wot, THE MAID OF TORO. O LOW shone the sun on the fair lake of Toro, Ail as a fair maiden bewilder'd in sorrow, Life's ebbing tide mark'd his footsteps so weary, "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, benumb'd with despair: And when the sun sunk on the sweet lake of Toro, WAR-SONG OF THE ROYAL EDINBURGH LIGHT DRAGOONS. Nennius. Is not peace the end of arms? Caratach. Not where the cause implies a general con. quest. Had we a difference with some petty isle, Or with our neighbours, Britons, for our landmarks, Or making head against a slight commotion, It must not be.-No! as they are our foes, 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 Sorely sigh'd to the breezes, and wept to the Dundas. The noble and constitutional measure, of flood. arming freemen in defence of their own rights, was "O saints! from the mansions of bliss lowly bend-nowhere more successful than in Edinburgh, which ing; Sweet virgin! who hearest the suppliant's cry; 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 Breathless she gazed on the woodlands so dreary; 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, From high Dunedin's towers we come, A band of brothers true; Our casques the leopard's spoils surround; With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd, We boast the red and blue.* Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown Dull Holland's tardy train; Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn, Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn, And foaming gnaw the chain; O! had they mark'd th' avenging callt 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 cheeks 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, Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw, If ever breath of British gale Or footstep of invader rude, With rapine foul, and red with blood, Pollute our happy shore Then farewell home! and farewell friends! Resolved, we mingle in the tide, To horse to horse! the sabres gleam; March forward, one and all! MAC-GREGOR'S GATHERING. WRITTEN FOR ALBYN'S ANTHOLOGY. Air-Thain' a Grigalach.* THESE verses are adapted to a very wild, yet lively gathering-tune, used by the Mac-Gregors. The severe treatment of this clan, their outlawry, and the proscription of their very name, are alluded to in the ballad. THE moon's on the lake, and the mist's on the brae, And the clan has a name that is nameless by day! Our signal for fight, that from monarchs we drew, Glen Orchy's proud mountains, Coalchuirn and her towers, Glenstrae and Glenlyon no longer are ours: We're landless, landless, landless, Gregalach! But doom'd and devoted by vassal and lord 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, Gregalach! Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance, &c. While there's leaves in the forest, and foam on the river, Mac-Gregor, despite them, shall flourish for ever! Come then, Gregalach! come then, Gregalach! Come then, come then, come then, &c. 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, Gregalach! Gather, gather, gather, &c. *The royal colours. The allusion is to the massacre of the Swiss guards, on the fatal 10th of 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, encou raged 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. MACKRIMMON'S LAMENT. Air-Cha till mi tuille.† MACKRIMMON, hereditary piper to the laird of Macleod, is said to have composed this lament when the clan was about to depart upon a distant "The Mac-Gregor is come." "We return no more." and dangerous expedition. The minstrel was im- the head of an army superior to his own. The pressed with a belief, which the event verified, words of the set theme, or melody, to which the that he was to be slain in the approaching feud; pipe variations are applied, run thus in Gaelic: and hence the Gaelic words, " Cha till mi tuille; Piobaireachd Dhonuil, piobaireachd Dhonuil; ged thillis Macleod, cha till Macrimmon," "I shall Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; never return; although Macleod returns, yet Mack-Piobaireachd Dhonuil Duidh, piobaireachd Dhonuil; rimmon shall never return!" The piece is but too Piob agus bratach air faiche Inverlochi. well known, from its being the strain with which The pipe summons of Donald the Black, the emigrants from the west highlands and isles The pipe summons of Donald the Black; usually take leave of their native shore. The war-pipe and the pennon are on the gathering-place at Inverlochy. Tempest clouds prolong'd the sway Where the soldier lay, Chill and stiff, and drench'd with rain, Wizard, witch, and fiend have power, And ghastly forms through mist and shower, And then th' affrighted prophet's ear Among the sons of men. Had follow'd stout and stern, Valiant Fassiefern. Through steel and shot he leads no more- And proud Ben Nevis hear with awe, Lone on the outskirts of the host, And heard, through darkness, far aloof, Where held the cloak'd patrol their course, And spurr'd 'gainst storm the swerving horse; Patrol nor sentinel may hear; When down the destined plain 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. They wheel'd their ring-dance hand in hand, The seer, who watch'd them ride the storm, And still their ghastly roundelay Was of the coming battle-fray, And of the destined dead. SONG. Wheel the wild dance, To bloody grave, 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, As each wild gust blows by; But still the corn, 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 bloody grave, 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. Approach, draw near, Proud cuirassier! Room for the men of steel! Both head and heart shall feel. Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, To sleep without a shroud. Sons of the spear! You feel us near, In many a ghastly dream; With fancy's eye Our forms you spy, And hear our fatal scream. With clearer sight Ere falls the night, Just when to weal or wo Your disembodied souls take flight Wheel the wild dance, And thunders rattle loud, |