The Poetical Works of Walter C. Smith :: :: University of Virginia Library

I was with the great Montrose
All through his grand campaigns,
When he swept o'er the hills and the snows,
With the wild curlews and the crows,
And the winds and the clouds and the rains.

Was never a leader like him
To know what his lads could do;
There were rivers and lakes to swim,
And moors where the mists lay dim,
But he burst on the foe ere they knew.

We were neighbours of old in Strathearn,
And I joined him before Tippermuir,
Marched close by his side up to Nairn,
And fought by his side at Auldearn,
Where the Whigs of our ruin made sure.

And oh how we raided Argyll,
Till the Campbells had hardly a roof
Or shieling, for mile after mile,
And we drove off their cattle the while,
And left scarce a horn or a hoof.

They'll not soon forget how our men
Then harried their clachans and byres;
There was wailing in every green glen,
And burning on every high Ben,
But laughter at our watchfires.

When we marched through a blinding snowstorm
To Inverlochy, Argyll
Lay down on his ship, like a worm,
But our gallant young leader's brave form
Ever marched in our front with a smile.

As they spied us, they faced right about,
But our claymores were thirsting for blood,
And we rushed on their ranks with a shout,
And broke them in stark, utter rout,
And drank the red stream like a flood.

We spoiled the fat burghers of Perth,
And if checked just for once at Dundee,
At Kilsyth their dead covered the earth,
Like swathes, when the reapers with mirth
Lay the ripe corn low on the lea.

Oh the spoil that we gathered that day
When our banner waved o'er Aberdeen!
Though our forces then melted away,
As they started for home with their prey,
And our musters next morning were lean.

That was the worst of the job;
War with them was a foray for gain,
The foe was scarce more than a mob,
Whom they hasted to kill and to rob,
And be off with their plunder again.

I was young, and I did not much care,
So long as the sword did not sleep,
Though they trooped off with all kinds of ware,
Pots and pans and cloth-webs, like a fair,
And droves of fat cattle and sheep.

592

The Highlands were swarming with men,
All idle, and keen for a fight,
And for one that dropt off there were ten
To fill up our thinning ranks, when
The Whigs once again were in sight.

Yet doubtless our leader must feel,
When his army was melting away;
It was hard to know how best to deal
With fellows more eager to steal
Than to stand by the flag and obey.

But I had not the care of command,
All I wanted was just a good fight,
And of course to bring back to the land
The rule of the king, and to stand
By the Church and Episcopal right.

I was never so cheerful and gay,
Though some of my comrades had dropt,
For I thought we had played out the play,
And the Whigamores, losing the day,
Their wicked devices had stopped.

So one night, the moon shining clear
On the Tweed, where I stood with Montrose,
I said, “What a glorious year!
We have scattered the rogues far and near,
And we'll have back the king, ere he knows.

“In the land of his fathers, at least,
He shall have his own once more
In spite of the Presbyter Priest,
And the new-fangled Puritan yeast
That swells in their hearts at the core.”

But he looked very sad, and he sighed,
“We have poured out rivers of blood,
And beaten them—yes,” he replied,
“But we've not gained a man to our side;
'Tis like thrashing the tide at its flood.

“We have swept o'er the land, and the shock
Has filled them with fear and unrest;
No longer they flout us and mock,
Yet I know that the bulk of the folk
Hate the sight of a kilt like the pest.

“For the king our lads care not a jot;
Their king is the chief of the clan;
Not once for the Cause have they fought,
But only to better their lot,
Or avenge an old feud when they can.

“No more for the Church do they heed,
For order or worship or rite;
Perhaps for the Pope and his creed
They might take to the sword, but they need
No faith as a plea for a fight.

“I am weary of half-savage men
Who seek but some gain to the tribes;
And the Whigs have been beaten in vain,
Ere long they will bind us again
By the parchments and quirks of their scribes.

“And I'm weary of these civil wars,
And the desolate homes they have made,
And the wide waste fields, and the scars
That are aching under the stars,
And the widows bewailing their dead.

593

“After all men have said, too, and sung,
Civil war brings its bitter remorse,
When you hear your own dear mother-tongue
Appealing for mercy among
The hoofs of your iron-shod horse.”

And that was the man, who, they said,
Cared only for battle and strife,
And to look on the dying and dead,
And who reckoned the blood he had shed
The glory and joy of his life.