Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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ALL HAIL, CALEDONIA. |
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
ALL HAIL, CALEDONIA.
All hail, Caledonia, the birth place of bravery,
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.
Whose children have ever breath'd freedom's pure air,
Thy sons are like lions, the sworn foes of slavery,
Thy daughters like rose-buds, for beauty so rare.
The patriot's fire in each bosom is glowing,
The soul of his sire through each son's blood is flowing,
While Fame's sacred trumpet fresh paeans is blowing,
To tell the whole world what Scotch valour can dare:
Such prowess the Alma's steep summits display'd,
When storm'd by the force of the Highland Brigade.
When Rome pour'd her legions of mail-cover'd champions,
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.
To tear from our fathers their freedom so dear,
In triumph they march'd till they came to the Grampians,
And there a stern foe to their front did appear;
Each mountain-top blazed with its war-fire of heather,
In myriads from hill and glen quick they did gather,
And shoulder to shoulder rush'd forward together,
And stem'd with sheer power the invader's career;
Thus Russia's dense columns roll'd back, sore dismay'd,
Before the dread fire of the Highland Brigade.
But, ah! a dire tempest sweeps over the Highlands,
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.
Expelling her children from pleasure and home,
And spreads desolation o'er all her sweet islands,
Exiling her sons o'er the wide world to roam.
No voice of the milkmaid is heard singing cheery,
No sound of the bagpipe is heard thrilling clearly;
But solitude reigns o'er her empire so dreary,
In league with the howl of the sea's dashing foam:
Britannia may yet see kilt, bonnet, and plaid;
She'll look all in vain for the Highland Brigade.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |