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Poems by Robert Nicoll

Second edition: with numerous additions, and a memoir of the author
  
  

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THE BATTLE WORD.
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THE BATTLE WORD.

In Scotland's cause—for Scotland's gude,
We'll blithely shed our dearest bluid,
An' stand or fa' as freeman should,
As we hae done before.
Now proudly come the foemen on,
Against auld Scotland's mountain throne;
The sun its last on them hath shone,—
Claymore!
We're freemen, an' maun ne'er be slaves—
We fight for heather-cover'd graves—
To tell yon comin' warrior-waves
That men our mothers bore;

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For maidens loved—for parents dear,
Fourscore would battle were it here,
An' stand like us, nor think o' fear—
Claymore!
They break—they halt—they form again—
We well have borne the battle-strain:
The grass that clothes the reeking plain
Is wet wi' stranger gore.
Remember! for our native soil,
That a' we love at hame may smile;
Nerve ilka arm for bloody toil—
Claymore!
We've conquered! wives an' bairns a',
We've conquered! baith for grit and sma'—
For maid and matron—puir and braw—
The bluidy darg is o'er.
Our fathers' weapon and our ain,
Thou'lt be our sons' we brawly ken—
By foughten fields! by foemen slain!
Claymore!