Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems By William Edmondstoune Aytoun ... Fourteenth edition |
 | LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH CAVALIERS |
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 | Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems |  |
LAYS OF THE SCOTTISH CAVALIERS
13
EDINBURGH AFTER FLODDEN.
I.
News of battle!—news of battle!Hark! 'tis ringing down the street:
And the archways and the pavement
Bear the clang of hurrying feet.
News of battle! who hath brought it?
News of triumph? Who should bring
Tidings from our noble army,
Greetings from our gallant King?
14
Blazing on the hills afar,
Each one bearing, as it kindled,
Message of the opened war.
All night long the northern streamers
Shot across the trembling sky:
Fearful lights, that never beckon
Save when kings or heroes die.
II.
News of battle! Who hath brought it?All are thronging to the gate;
“Warder—warder! open quickly!
Man—is this a time to wait?”
And the heavy gates are opened:
Then a murmur long and loud,
And a cry of fear and wonder
Bursts from out the bending crowd.
For they see in battered harness
Only one hard-stricken man;
And his weary steed is wounded,
And his cheek is pale and wan:
15
In his weak and drooping hand—
God! can that be Randolph Murray,
Captain of the city band?
III.
Round him crush the people, crying,“Tell us all—oh, tell us true!
Where are they who went to battle,
Randolph Murray, sworn to you?
Where are they, our brothers—children?
Have they met the English foe?
Why art thou alone, unfollowed?
Is it weal or is it woe?”
Like a corpse the grisly warrior
Looks from out his helm of steel;
But no word he speaks in answer—
Only with his armèd heel
Chides his weary steed, and onward
Up the city streets they ride;
Fathers, sisters, mothers, children,
Shrieking, praying by his side.
16
Tell us what mischance hath come.”
Then he lifts his riven banner,
And the asker's voice is dumb.
IV.
The elders of the cityHave met within their hall—
The men whom good King James had charged
To watch the tower and wall.
“Your hands are weak with age,” he said,
“Your hearts are stout and true;
So bide ye in the Maiden Town,
While others fight for you.
My trumpet from the Border-side
Shall send a blast so clear,
That all who wait within the gate
That stirring sound may hear.
Or, if it be the will of Heaven
That back I never come,
And if, instead of Scottish shouts,
Ye hear the English drum,—
17
Then gird you to the fray,
Then man the walls like burghers stout,
And fight while fight you may.
'Twere better that in fiery flame
The roofs should thunder down,
Than that the foot of foreign foe
Should trample in the town!”
V.
Then in came Randolph Murray,—His step was slow and weak,
And, as he doffed his dinted helm,
The tears ran down his cheek:
They fell upon his corslet
And on his mailèd hand,
As he gazed around him wistfully,
Leaning sorely on his brand.
And none who then beheld him
But straight were smote with fear,
For a bolder and a sterner man
Had never couched a spear.
18
Some ghastly news must bring;
And all of them were fathers,
And their sons were with the King.
VI.
And up then rose the Provost—A brave old man was he,
Of ancient name, and knightly fame,
And chivalrous degree.
He ruled our city like a Lord
Who brooked no equal here,
And ever for the townsman's rights
Stood up 'gainst prince and peer.
And he had seen the Scottish host
March from the Borough-muir,
With music-storm and clamorous shout,
And all the din that thunders out
When youth 's of victory sure.
But yet a dearer thought had he,—
For, with a father's pride,
19
Go forth by Randolph's side,
With casque on head and spur on heel,
All keen to do and dare;
And proudly did that gallant boy
Dunedin's banner bear.
Oh! woeful now was the old man's look,
And he spake right heavily—
“Now, Randolph, tell thy tidings,
However sharp they be!
Woe is written on thy visage,
Death is looking from thy face:
Speak! though it be of overthrow—
It cannot be disgrace!”
VII.
Right bitter was the agonyThat wrung that soldier proud:
Thrice did he strive to answer,
And thrice he groaned aloud.
Then he gave the riven banner
To the old man's shaking hand,
20
From the bravest of the land!
Ay! ye may look upon it—
It was guarded well and long,
By your brothers and your children,
By the valiant and the strong.
One by one they fell around it,
As the archers laid them low,
Grimly dying, still unconquered,
With their faces to the foe.
Ay! ye may well look upon it—
There is more than honour there,
Else, be sure, I had not brought it
From the field of dark despair.
Never yet was royal banner
Steeped in such a costly dye;
It hath lain upon a bosom
Where no other shroud shall lie.
Sirs! I charge you, keep it holy;
Keep it as a sacred thing,
For the stain ye see upon it
Was the life-blood of your King!”
21
VIII.
Woe, and woe, and lamentation!What a piteous cry was there!
Widows, maidens, mothers, children,
Shrieking, sobbing in despair!
Through the streets the death-word rushes,
Spreading terror, sweeping on—
“Jesu Christ! our King has fallen—
O Great God, King James is gone!
Holy Mother Mary, shield us,
Thou who erst didst lose thy Son!
O the blackest day for Scotland
That she ever knew before!
O our King—the good, the noble,
Shall we see him never more?
Woe to us, and woe to Scotland!
O our sons, our sons and men!
Surely some have 'scaped the Southron,
Surely some will come again!
Till the oak that fell last winter
Shall uprear its shattered stem—
22
Ye may look in vain for them!
IX.
But within the Council ChamberAll was silent as the grave,
Whilst the tempest of their sorrow
Shook the bosoms of the brave.
Well indeed might they be shaken
With the weight of such a blow:
He was gone—their prince, their idol,
Whom they loved and worshipped so!
Like a knell of death and judgment
Rung from heaven by angel hand,
Fell the words of desolation
On the elders of the land.
Hoary heads were bowed and trembling,
Withered hands were clasped and wrung;
God had left the old and feeble,
He had ta'en away the young.
23
X.
Then the Provost he uprose,And his lip was ashen white;
But a flush was on his brow,
And his eye was full of light.
“Thou hast spoken, Randolph Murray,
Like a soldier stout and true;
Thou hast done a deed of daring
Had been perilled but by few.
For thou hast not shamed to face us,
Nor to speak thy ghastly tale,
Standing—thou a knight and captain—
Here, alive within thy mail!
Now, as my God shall judge me,
I hold it braver done,
Than hadst thou tarried in thy place,
And died above my son!
Thou needst not tell it: he is dead.
God help us all this day!
But speak—how fought the citizens
Within the furious fray?
24
'Twere something still to tell
That no Scottish foot went backward
When the Royal Lion fell!”
XI.
“No one failed him! He is keepingRoyal state and semblance still;
Knight and noble lie around him,
Cold on Flodden's fatal hill.
Of the brave and gallant-hearted,
Whom ye sent with prayers away,
Not a single man departed
From his Monarch yesterday.
Had you seen them, O my masters!
When the night began to fall,
And the English spearmen gathered
Round a grim and ghastly wall!
As the wolves in winter circle
Round the leaguer on the heath,
So the greedy foe glared upward,
Panting still for blood and death.
25
Which the boldest dared not scale;
Every stone a Scottish body,
Every step a corpse in mail!
And behind it lay our Monarch,
Clenching still his shivered sword;
By his side Montrose and Athole,
At his feet a Southron lord.
All so thick they lay together,
When the stars lit up the sky,
That I knew not who were stricken,
Or who yet remained to die.
Few there were when Surrey halted,
And his wearied host withdrew;
None but dying men around me,
When the English trumpet blew.
Then I stooped, and took the banner,
As you see it, from his breast,
And I closed our hero's eyelids,
And I left him to his rest.
In the mountains growled the thunder,
As I leaped the woeful wall,
26
Over Flodden, like a pall.”
XII.
So he ended. And the othersCared not any answer then;
Sitting silent, dumb with sorrow,
Sitting anguish-struck, like men
Who have seen the roaring torrent
Sweep their happy homes away,
And yet linger by the margin,
Staring wildly on the spray.
But, without, the maddening tumult
Waxes ever more and more,
And the crowd of wailing women
Gather round the Council door.
Every dusky spire is ringing
With a dull and hollow knell,
And the Miserere's singing
To the tolling of the bell.
Through the streets the burghers hurry,
Spreading terror as they go;
27
For the coming of the foe.
From each mountain-top a pillar
Streams into the torpid air,
Bearing token from the Border
That the English host is there.
All without is flight and terror,
All within is woe and fear—
God protect thee, Maiden City,
For thy latest hour is near!
XIII.
No! not yet, thou high Dunedin!Shalt thou totter to thy fall;
Though thy bravest and thy strongest
Are not there to man the wall.
No, not yet! the ancient spirit
Of our fathers hath not gone;
Take it to thee as a buckler
Better far than steel or stone.
Oh, remember those who perished
For thy birthright at the time
28
And to side with Wallace crime!
Have they not a voice among us,
Whilst their hallowed dust is here?
Hear ye not a summons sounding
From each buried warrior's bier?
Up!—they say—and keep the freedom
Which we won you long ago:
Up! and keep our graves unsullied
From the insults of the foe!
Up! and if ye cannot save them,
Come to us in blood and fire:
Midst the crash of falling turrets
Let the last of Scots expire!
XIV.
Still the bells are tolling fiercelyAnd the cry comes louder in;
Mothers wailing for their children,
Sisters for their slaughtered kin.
All is terror and disorder;
Till the Provost rises up,
29
Of the fell and bitter cup.
All so stately from his sorrow,
Rose the old undaunted chief,
That you had not deemed, to see him,
His was more than common grief.
“Rouse ye, Sirs!” he said; “we may not
Longer mourn for what is done;
If our King be taken from us,
We are left to guard his son.
We have sworn to keep the city
From the foe, whate'er they be,
And the oath that we have taken
Never shall be broke by me.
Death is nearer to us, brethren,
Than it seemed to those who died,
Fighting yesterday at Flodden,
By their lord and master's side.
Let us meet it then in patience,
Not in terror or in fear;
Though our hearts are bleeding yonder,
Let our souls be steadfast here.
30
And we yet have much to do;
Up! and haste ye through the city,
Stir the burghers stout and true!
Gather all our scattered people,
Fling the banner out once more,—
Randolph Murray! do thou bear it,
As it erst was borne before:
Never Scottish heart will leave it,
When they see their Monarch's gore!
XV.
“Let them cease that dismal knelling!It is time enough to ring,
When the fortress-strength of Scotland
Stoops to ruin like its King.
Let the bells be kept for warning,
Not for terror or alarm;
When they next are heard to thunder,
Let each man and stripling arm.
Bid the women leave their wailing—
Do they think that woeful strain,
31
Can redeem their dearest slain?
Bid them cease,—or rather hasten
To the churches every one;
There to pray to Mary Mother,
And to her anointed Son,
That the thunderbolt above us
May not fall in ruin yet;
That in fire and blood and rapine
Scotland's glory may not set.
Let them pray,—for never women
Stood in need of such a prayer!—
England's yeomen shall not find them
Clinging to the altars there.
No! if we are doomed to perish,
Man and maiden, let us fall,
And a common gulf of ruin
Open wide to whelm us all!
Never shall the ruthless spoiler
Lay his hot insulting hand
On the sisters of our heroes,
Whilst we bear a torch or brand!
32
But when next ye hear the bell
Sounding forth the sullen summons
That may be our funeral knell,
Once more let us meet together,
Once more see each other's face;
Then, like men that need not tremble,
Go to our appointed place.
God, our Father, will not fail us,
In that last tremendous hour,—
If all other bulwarks crumble,
He will be our strength and tower:
Though the ramparts rock beneath us,
And the walls go crashing down,
Though the roar of conflagration
Bellow o'er the sinking town;
There is yet one place of shelter,
Where the foeman cannot come,
Where the summons never sounded
Of the trumpet or the drum.
There again we'll meet our children,
Who, on Flodden's trampled sod,
33
Rendered up their souls to God.
There shall we find rest and refuge,
With our dear departed brave;
And the ashes of the city
Be our universal grave!”
35
THE EXECUTION OF MONTROSE
I
Come hither, Evan Cameron!Come, stand beside my knee—
I hear the river roaring down
Towards the wintry sea.
There's shouting on the mountain-side,
There's war within the blast—
Old faces look upon me,
Old forms go trooping past:
42
Amidst the din of fight,
And my dim spirit wakes again
Upon the verge of night.
II
'Twas I that led the Highland hostThrough wild Lochaber's snows,
What time the plaided clans came down
To battle with Montrose.
I've told thee how the Southrons fell
Beneath the broad claymore,
And how we smote the Campbell clan
By Inverlochy's shore.
I've told thee how we swept Dundee,
And tamed the Lindsays' pride;
But never have I told thee yet
How the great Marquis died.
III
A traitor sold him to his foes;O deed of deathless shame!
43
With one of Assynt's name—
Be it upon the mountain's side,
Or yet within the glen,
Stand he in martial gear alone,
Or backed by armèd men—
Face him, as thou wouldst face the man
Who wronged thy sire's renown;
Remember of what blood thou art,
And strike the caitiff down!
IV
They brought him to the Watergate,Hard bound with hempen span,
As though they held a lion there,
And not a fenceless man.
They set him high upon a cart—
The hangman rode below—
They drew his hands behind his back,
And bared his noble brow.
Then, as a hound is slipped from leash,
They cheered the common throng,
44
And bade him pass along.
V
It would have made a brave man's heartGrow sad and sick that day,
To watch the keen malignant eyes
Bent down on that array.
There stood the Whig west-country lords,
In balcony and bow;
There sat their gaunt and withered dames,
And their daughters all a-row.
And every open window
Was full as full might be
With black-robed Covenanting carles,
That goodly sport to see!
VI
But when he came, though pale and wan,He looked so great and high,
So noble was his manly front,
So calm his steadfast eye;—
45
And each man held his breath,
For well they knew the hero's soul
Was face to face with death.
And then a mournful shudder
Through all the people crept,
And some that came to scoff at him
Now turned aside and wept.
VII
But onwards—always onwards,In silence and in gloom,
The dreary pageant laboured,
Till it reached the house of doom.
Then first a woman's voice was heard
In jeer and laughter loud,
And an angry cry and a hiss arose
From the heart of the tossing crowd:
Then as the Græme looked upwards,
He saw the ugly smile
Of him who sold his king for gold—
The master-fiend Argyle!
46
VIII
The Marquis gazed a moment,And nothing did he say,
But the cheek of Argyle grew ghastly pale,
And he turned his eyes away.
The painted harlot by his side,
She shook through every limb,
For a roar like thunder swept the street,
And hands were clenched at him;
And a Saxon soldier cried aloud,
“Back, coward, from thy place!
For seven long years thou hast not dared
To look him in the face.”
IX
Had I been there with sword in hand,And fifty Camerons by,
That day through high Dunedin's streets
Had pealed the slogan-cry.
Not all their troops of trampling horse,
Nor might of mailèd men—
47
Had borne us backwards then!
Once more his foot on Highland heath
Had trod as free as air,
Or I, and all who bore my name,
Been laid around him there!
X
It might not be. They placed him nextWithin the solemn hall,
Where once the Scottish kings were throned
Amidst their nobles all.
But there was dust of vulgar feet
On that polluted floor,
And perjured traitors filled the place
Where good men sate before.
With savage glee came Warristoun
To read the murderous doom;
And then uprose the great Montrose
In the middle of the room.
48
XI
“Now, by my faith as belted knight,And by the name I bear,
And by the bright Saint Andrew's cross
That waves above us there—
Yea, by a greater, mightier oath—
And oh, that such should be!—
By that dark stream of royal blood
That lies 'twixt you and me—
I have not sought in battle-field
A wreath of such renown,
Nor dared I hope on my dying day
To win the martyr's crown!
XII
“There is a chamber far awayWhere sleep the good and brave,
But a better place ye have named for me
Than by my father's grave.
For truth and right, 'gainst treason's might,
This hand hath always striven,
49
In the eye of earth and heaven.
Then nail my head on yonder tower—
Give every town a limb—
And God who made shall gather them:
I go from you to Him!”
XIII
The morning dawned full darkly,The rain came flashing down,
And the jagged streak of the levin-bolt
Lit up the gloomy town:
The thunder crashed across the heaven,
The fatal hour was come;
Yet aye broke in with muffled beat,
The 'larm of the drum.
There was madness on the earth below
And anger in the sky,
And young and old, and rich and poor,
Came forth to see him die.
50
XIV
Ah, God! that ghastly gibbet!How dismal 'tis to see
The great tall spectral skeleton,
The ladder and the tree!
Hark! hark! it is the clash of arms—
The bells begin to toll—
“He is coming! he is coming!
God's mercy on his soul!”
One last long peal of thunder—
The clouds are cleared away,
And the glorious sun once more looks down
Amidst the dazzling day.
XV
“He is coming! he is coming!”Like a bridegroom from his room,
Came the hero from his prison
To the scaffold and the doom.
There was glory on his forehead,
There was lustre in his eye,
51
More proudly than to die:
There was colour in his visage,
Though the cheeks of all were wan,
And they marvelled as they saw him pass,
That great and goodly man!
XVI
He mounted up the scaffold,And he turned him to the crowd;
But they dared not trust the people,
So he might not speak aloud.
But he looked upon the heavens,
And they were clear and blue,
And in the liquid ether
The eye of God shone through!
Yet a black and murky battlement
Lay resting on the hill,
As though the thunder slept within—
All else was calm and still.
52
XVII
The grim Geneva ministersWith anxious scowl drew near,
As you have seen the ravens flock
Around the dying deer.
He would not deign them word nor sign,
But alone he bent the knee;
And veiled his face for Christ's dear grace
Beneath the gallows-tree.
Then radiant and serene he rose,
And cast his cloak away:
For he had ta'en his latest look
Of earth and sun and day.
XVIII
A beam of light fell o'er him,Like a glory round the shriven,
And he climbed the lofty ladder
As it were the path to heaven.
Then came a flash from out the cloud,
And a stunning thunder-roll;
53
For fear was on every soul.
There was another heavy sound,
A hush and then a groan;
And darkness swept across the sky—
The work of death was done!
67
THE HEART OF THE BRUCE
I
It was upon an April morn,While yet the frost lay hoar,
We heard Lord James's bugle-horn
Sound by the rocky shore.
II
Then down we went, a hundred knights,All in our dark array,
And flung our armour in the ships
That rode within the bay.
68
III
We spoke not as the shore grew less,But gazed in silence back,
Where the long billows swept away
The foam behind our track.
IV
And aye the purple hues decayedUpon the fading hill,
And but one heart in all that ship
Was tranquil, cold, and still.
V
The good Lord Douglas paced the deck—Oh, but his face was wan!
Unlike the flush it used to wear
When in the battle-van.—
VI
“Come hither, I pray, my trusty knight,Sir Simon of the Lee;
There is a freit lies near my soul
I needs must tell to thee.
69
VII
“Thou know'st the words King Robert spokeUpon his dying day:
How he bade me take his noble heart
And carry it far away;
VIII
“And lay it in the holy soilWhere once the Saviour trod,
Since he might not bear the blessed Cross,
Nor strike one blow for God.
IX
“Last night as in my bed I lay,I dreamed a dreary dream:—
Methought I saw a Pilgrim stand
In the moonlight's quivering beam.
X
“His robe was of the azure dye—Snow-white his scattered hairs—
And even such a cross he bore
As good Saint Andrew bears.
70
XI
“‘Why go ye forth, Lord James,’ he said,‘With spear and belted brand?
Why do you take its dearest pledge
From this our Scottish land?
XII
“‘The sultry breeze of GalileeCreeps through its groves of palm,
The olives on the Holy Mount
Stand glittering in the calm.
XIII
“‘But 'tis not there that Scotland's heartShall rest, by God's decree,
Till the great angel calls the dead
To rise from earth and sea!
XIV
“‘Lord James of Douglas, mark my rede!That heart shall pass once more
In fiery fight against the foe,
As it was wont of yore.
71
XV
“‘And it shall pass beneath the Cross,And save King Robert's vow;
But other hands shall bear it back,
Not, James of Douglas, thou!’
XVI
“Now, by thy knightly faith, I pray,Sir Simon of the Lee—
For truer friend had never man
Than thou hast been to me—
XVII
“If ne'er upon the Holy Land'Tis mine in life to tread,
Bear thou to Scotland's kindly earth
The relics of her dead.”
XVIII
The tear was in Sir Simon's eyeAs he wrung the warrior's hand—
“Betide me weal, betide me woe,
I'll hold by thy command.
72
XIX
“But if in battle-front, Lord James,'Tis ours once more to ride,
Nor force of man, nor craft of fiend,
Shall cleave me from thy side!”
XX
And aye we sailed, and aye we sailed,Across the weary sea,
Until one morn the coast of Spain
Rose grimly on our lee.
XXI
And as we rounded to the port,Beneath the watch-tower's wall,
We heard the clash of the atabals,
And the trumpet's wavering call.
XXII
“Why sounds yon Eastern music hereSo wantonly and long,
And whose the crowd of armèd men
That round yon standard throng?”
73
XXIII
“The Moors have come from AfricaTo spoil, and waste, and slay,
And King Alonzo of Castile
Must fight with them to-day.”
XXIV
“Now shame it were,” cried good Lord James,“Shall never be said of me,
That I and mine have turned aside
From the Cross in jeopardie!
XXV
“Have down, have down, my merry men all—Have down unto the plain;
We'll let the Scottish lion loose
Within the fields of Spain!”
XXVI
“Now welcome to me, noble lord,Thou and thy stalwart power;
Dear is the sight of a Christian knight,
Who comes in such an hour!
74
XXVII
“Is it for bond or faith you come,Or yet for golden fee?
Or bring ye France's lilies here,
Or the flower of Burgundie?”
XXVIII
“God greet thee well, thou valiant king,Thee and thy belted peers—
Sir James of Douglas am I called,
And these are Scottish spears.
XXIX
“We do not fight for bond or plight,Nor yet for golden fee;
But for the sake of our blessed Lord,
Who died upon the tree.
XXX
“We bring our great King Robert's heartAcross the weltering wave,
To lay it in the holy soil
Hard by the Saviour's grave.
75
XXXI
“True pilgrims we, by land or sea,Where danger bars the way;
And therefore are we here, Lord King,
To ride with thee this day!”
XXXII
The King has bent his stately head,And the tears were in his eyne—
“God's blessing on thee, noble knight,
For this brave thought of thine!
XXXIII
“I know thy name full well, Lord James;And honoured may I be,
That those who fought beside the Bruce
Should fight this day for me!
XXXIV
“Take thou the leading of the van,And charge the Moors amain;
There is not such a lance as thine
In all the host of Spain!”
76
XXXV
The Douglas turned towards us then,Oh, but his glance was high!
“There is not one of all my men
But is as frank as I.
XXXVI
“There is not one of all my knightsBut bears as true a spear—
Then—onwards, Scottish gentlemen,
And think, King Robert's here!”
XXXVII
The trumpets blew, the cross-bolts flew,The arrows flashed like flame,
As spur in side, and spear in rest,
Against the foe we came.
XXXVIII
And many a bearded SaracenWent down, both horse and man;
For through their ranks we rode like corn,
So furiously we ran!
77
XXXIX
But in behind our path they closed,Though fain to let us through;
For they were forty thousand men,
And we were wondrous few.
XL
We might not see a lance's length,So dense was their array,
But the long fell sweep of the Scottish blade
Still held them hard at bay.
XLI
“Make in! make in!” Lord Douglas cried—“Make in, my brethren dear!
Sir William of St Clair is down;
We may not leave him here!”
XLII
But thicker, thicker grew the swarm,And sharper shot the rain;
And the horses reared amid the press,
But they would not charge again.
78
XLIII
“Now Jesu help thee,” said Lord James,“Thou kind and true St Clair!
An' if I may not bring thee off,
I'll die beside thee there!”
XLIV
Then in his stirrups up he stood,So lionlike and bold,
And held the precious heart aloft
All in its case of gold.
XLV
He flung it from him far ahead,And never spake he more,
But—“Pass thee first, thou dauntless heart,
As thou wert wont of yore!”
XLVI
The roar of fight rose fiercer yet,And heavier still the stour,
Till the spears of Spain came shivering in,
And swept away the Moor.
79
XLVII
“Now praised be God, the day is won!They fly o'er flood and fell—
Why dost thou draw the rein so hard,
Good knight, that fought so well?”
XLVIII
“Oh, ride ye on, Lord King!” he said,“And leave the dead to me;
For I must keep the dreariest watch
That ever I shall dree!
XLIX
“There lies above his master's heart,The Douglas, stark and grim;
And woe, that I am living man,
Not lying there by him!
L
“The world grows cold, my arm is old,And thin my lyart hair,
And all that I loved best on earth
Is stretched before me there.
80
LI
“O Bothwell banks, that bloom so brightBeneath the sun of May!
The heaviest cloud that ever blew
Is bound for you this day.
LII
“And, Scotland, thou may'st veil thy headIn sorrow and in pain:
The sorest stroke upon thy brow
Hath fallen this day in Spain!
LIII
“We'll bear them back unto our ship,We'll bear them o'er the sea,
And lay them in the hallowed earth,
Within our own countrie.
LIV
“And be thou strong of heart, Lord King,For this I tell thee sure,
The sod that drank the Douglas blood
Shall never bear the Moor!”
81
LV
The King he lighted from his horse,He flung his brand away,
And took the Douglas by the hand,
So stately as he lay.
LVI
“God give thee rest, thou valiant soul!That fought so well for Spain;
I'd rather half my land were gone,
So thou wert here again!”
LVII
We lifted thence the good Lord James,And the priceless heart he bore;
And heavily we steered our ship
Towards the Scottish shore.
LVIII
No welcome greeted our return,Nor clang of martial tread,
But all were dumb and hushed as death,
Before the mighty dead.
82
LIX
We laid our chief in Douglas Kirk,The heart in fair Melrose;
And woeful men were we that day—
God grant their souls repose!
107
THE BURIAL-MARCH OF DUNDEE
I.
Sound the fife, and cry the slogan—Let the pibroch shake the air
With its wild triumphal music,
Worthy of the freight we bear.
Let the ancient hills of Scotland
Hear once more the battle-song
Swell within their glens and valleys
As the clansmen march along!
108
Never from the deadly fray,
Was a nobler trophy carried
Than we bring with us to-day—
Never, since the valiant Douglas
On his dauntless bosom bore
Good King Robert's heart—the priceless—
To our dear Redeemer's shore!
Lo! we bring with us the hero—
Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor
From the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons,
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!
Is there any here will venture
To bewail our dead Dundee?
Let the widows of the traitors
Weep until their eyes are dim!
109
Let none dare to mourn for him!
See! above his glorious body
Lies the royal banner's fold—
See! his valiant blood is mingled—
With its crimson and its gold—
See how calm he looks, and stately,
Like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning
Breaks along the battle-field!
See—Oh never more, my comrades,
Shall we see that falcon eye
Redden with its inward lightning,
As the hour of fight drew nigh!
Never shall we hear the voice that,
Clearer than the trumpet's call,
Bade us strike for King and Country,
Bade us win the field, or fall!
II.
On the heights of KilliecrankieYester-morn our army lay:
110
From the river's broken way;
Hoarsely roared the swollen torrent,
And the Pass was wrapt in gloom,
When the clansmen rose together
From their lair amidst the broom.
Then we belted on our tartans,
And our bonnets down we drew,
And we felt our broadswords' edges,
And we proved them to be true;
And we prayed the prayer of soldiers,
And we cried the gathering-cry,
And we clasped the hands of kinsmen,
And we swore to do or die!
Then our leader rode before us
On his war-horse black as night—
Well the Cameronian rebels
Knew that charger in the fight!—
And a cry of exultation
From the bearded warriors rose;
For we loved the house of Claver'se,
And we thought of good Montrose.
111
“Soldiers! I have sworn a vow:
Ere the evening star shall glisten
On Schehallion's lofty brow,
Either we shall rest in triumph,
Or another of the Græmes
Shall have died in battle-harness
For his Country and King James!
Think upon the Royal Martyr—
Think of what his race endure—
Think of him whom butchers murdered
On the field of Magus Muir:—
By his sacred blood I charge ye,
By the ruined hearth and shrine—
By the blighted hopes of Scotland,
By your injuries and mine—
Strike this day as if the anvil
Lay beneath your blows the while,
Be they covenanting traitors,
Or the brood of false Argyle!
Strike! and drive the trembling rebels
Backwards o'er the stormy Forth;
112
How they fared within the North.
Let them tell that Highland honour
Is not to be bought nor sold,
That we scorn their prince's anger
As we loathe his foreign gold.
Strike! and when the fight is over,
If ye look in vain for me,
Where the dead are lying thickest,
Search for him that was Dundee!”
III.
Loudly then the hills re-echoedWith our answer to his call,
But a deeper echo sounded
In the bosoms of us all.
For the lands of wide Breadalbane,
Not a man who heard him speak
Would that day have left the battle.
Burning eye and flushing cheek
Told the clansmen's fierce emotion,
And they harder drew their breath;
113
Stronger than the grasp of death.
Soon we heard a challenge-trumpet
Sounding in the Pass below,
And the distant tramp of horses,
And the voices of the foe:
Down we crouched amid the bracken,
Till the Lowland ranks drew near,
Panting like the hounds in summer,
When they scent the stately deer.
From the dark defile emerging,
Next we saw the squadrons come,
Leslie's foot and Leven's troopers
Marching to the tuck of drum;
Through the scattered wood of birches,
O'er the broken ground and heath,
Wound the long battalion slowly,
Till they gained the plain beneath;
Then we bounded from our covert.—
Judge how looked the Saxons then,
When they saw the rugged mountain
Start to life with armèd men!
114
Swept the hurricane of steel,
Rose the slogan of Macdonald—
Flashed the broadsword of Locheill!
Vainly sped the withering volley
'Mongst the foremost of our band—
On we poured until we met them,
Foot to foot, and hand to hand.
Horse and man went down like drift-wood
When the floods are black at Yule,
And their carcasses are whirling
In the Garry's deepest pool.
Horse and man went down before us—
Living foe there tarried none
On the field of Killiecrankie,
When that stubborn fight was done!
IV.
And the evening star was shiningOn Schehallion's distant head,
When we wiped our bloody broadswords,
And returned to count the dead.
115
Stretched upon the cumbered plain,
As he told us where to seek him,
In the thickest of the slain.
And a smile was on his visage,
For within his dying ear
Pealed the joyful note of triumph,
And the clansmen's clamorous cheer:
So, amidst the battle's thunder,
Shot, and steel, and scorching flame,
In the glory of his manhood
Passed the spirit of the Græme!
V.
Open wide the vaults of Atholl,Where the bones of heroes rest—
Open wide the hallowed portals
To receive another guest!
Last of Scots, and last of freemen—
Last of all that dauntless race,
Who would rather die unsullied
Than outlive the land's disgrace!
116
Reck not of the after-time:
Honour may be deemed dishonour,
Loyalty be called a crime.
Sleep in peace with kindred ashes
Of the noble and the true,
Hands that never failed their country,
Hearts that never baseness knew.
Sleep!—and till the latest trumpet
Wakes the dead from earth and sea,
Scotland shall not boast a braver
Chieftain than our own Dundee!
133
THE WIDOW OF GLENCOE
I.
Do not lift him from the bracken,Leave him lying where he fell—
Better bier ye cannot fashion:
None beseems him half so well
As the bare and broken heather,
And the hard and trampled sod,
Whence his angry soul ascended
To the judgment-seat of God!
134
Seek no mantle for the dead,
Save the cold and spotless covering
Showered from heaven upon his head.
Leave his broadsword as we found it,
Bent and broken with the blow,
Which, before he died, avenged him
On the foremost of the foe.
Leave the blood upon his bosom—
Wash not off that sacred stain;
Let it stiffen on the tartan,
Let his wounds unclosed remain,
Till the day when he shall show them
At the throne of God on high,
When the murderer and the murdered
Meet before their Judge's eye!
II.
Nay, ye should not weep, my children!Leave it to the faint and weak;
Sobs are but a woman's weapon—
Tears befit a maiden's cheek.
135
Weep not thou, his orphan heir—
Not in shame, but stainless honour,
Lies thy slaughtered father there.
Weep not—but when years are over,
And thine arm is strong and sure,
And thy foot is swift and steady
On the mountain and the muir—
Let thy heart be hard as iron,
And thy wrath as fierce as fire,
Till the hour when vengeance cometh
For the race that slew thy sire!
Till in deep and dark Glenlyon
Rise a louder shriek of woe,
Than at midnight, from their eyrie,
Scared the eagles of Glencoe:
Louder than the screams that mingled
With the howling of the blast,
When the murderer's steel was clashing,
And the fires were rising fast;
When thy noble father bounded
To the rescue of his men,
136
Pealed throughout the startled glen!
When the herd of frantic women
Stumbled through the midnight snow,
With their fathers' houses blazing,
And their dearest dead below!
Oh, the horror of the tempest,
As the flashing drift was blown,
Crimsoned with the conflagration,
And the roofs went thundering down!
Oh, the prayers—the prayers and curses
That together winged their flight
From the maddened hearts of many
Through that long and woeful night!
Till the fires began to dwindle,
And the shots grew faint and few,
And we heard the foeman's challenge
Only in a far halloo:
Till the silence once more settled
O'er the gorges of the glen,
Broken only by the Cona
Plunging through its naked den.
137
Was the drifting veil withdrawn,
And the ghastly valley glimmered
In the grey December dawn.
Better had the morning never
Dawned upon our dark despair!
Black amidst the common whiteness
Rose the spectral ruins there:
But the sight of these was nothing
More than wrings the wild-dove's breast,
When she searches for her offspring
Round the relics of her nest.
For in many a spot the tartan
Peered above the wintry heap,
Marking where a dead Macdonald
Lay within his frozen sleep.
Tremblingly we scooped the covering
From each kindred victim's head,
And the living lips were burning
On the cold ones of the dead.
And I left them with their dearest—
Dearest charge had every one—
138
Left the mother with her son.
I alone of all was mateless—
Far more wretched I than they,
For the snow would not discover
Where my lord and husband lay.
But I wandered up the valley,
Till I found him lying low,
With the gash upon his bosom
And the frown upon his brow—
Till I found him lying murdered,
Where he wooed me long ago!
III.
Woman's weakness shall not shame me—Why should I have tears to shed?
Could I rain them down like water,
O my hero! on thy head—
Could the cry of lamentation
Wake thee from thy silent sleep,
Could it set thy heart a-throbbing,
It were mine to wail and weep!
139
Lest the Campbell women say
That the daughters of Clanranald
Are as weak and frail as they.
I had wept thee hadst thou fallen,
Like our fathers, on thy shield,
When a host of English foemen
Camped upon a Scottish field—
I had mourned thee, hadst thou perished
With the foremost of his name,
When the valiant and the noble
Died around the dauntless Græme!
But I will not wrong thee, husband!
With my unavailing cries,
Whilst thy cold and mangled body
Stricken by the traitor lies;
Whilst he counts the gold and glory
That this hideous night has won,
And his heart is big with triumph
At the murder he has done.
Other eyes than mine shall glisten,
Other hearts be rent in twain,
140
Wither in the autumn rain.
Then I'll seek thee where thou sleepest,
And I'll veil my weary head,
Praying for a place beside thee,
Dearer than my bridal bed:
And I'll give thee tears, my husband!
If the tears remain to me,
When the widows of the foeman
Cry the coronach for thee!
155
THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS
I.
The Rhine is running deep and red,The island lies before—
“Now is there one of all the host
Will dare to venture o'er?
For not alone the river's sweep
Might make a brave man quail:
The foe are on the further side,
Their shot comes fast as hail.
156
We may not hope to win!
Now is there any of the host
Will dare to venture in?”
II.
“The ford is deep, the banks are steep,The island-shore lies wide:
Nor man nor horse could stem its force,
Or reach the further side.
See there! amidst the willow-boughs
The serried bayonets gleam;
They've flung their bridge—they've won the isle;
The foe have crossed the stream!
Their volley flashes sharp and strong—
By all the Saints! I trow
There never yet was soldier born
Could force that passage now!”
III.
So spoke the bold French MareschalWith him who led the van,
157
The turbid river ran.
Nor bridge nor boat had they to cross
The wild and swollen Rhine,
And thundering on the other bank
Far stretched the German line.
Hard by there stood a swarthy man
Was leaning on his sword,
And a saddened smile lit up his face
As he heard the Captain's word.
“I've seen a wilder stream ere now
Than that which rushes there;
I've stemmed a heavier torrent yet
And never thought to dare.
If German steel be sharp and keen,
Is ours not strong and true?
There may be danger in the deed,
But there is honour too.”
IV.
The old lord in his saddle turned,And hastily he said—
158
Awakened from the dead?
Thou art the leader of the Scots—
Now well and sure I know,
That gentle blood in dangerous hour
Ne'er yet ran cold nor slow,
And I have seen ye in the fight
Do all that mortal may:
If honour is the boon ye seek,
It may be won this day—
The prize is in the middle isle,
There lies the adventurous way.
And armies twain are on the plain,
The daring deed to see—
Now ask thy gallant company
If they will follow thee!”
V.
Right gladsome looked the Captain then,And nothing did he say,
But he turned him to his little band—
Oh few, I ween, were they!
159
That ever fought in fray.
No one of all that company
But bore a gentle name,
Not one whose fathers had not stood
In Scotland's fields of fame.
All they had marched with great Dundee
To where he fought and fell,
And in the deadly battle-strife
Had venged their leader well:
And they had bent the knee to earth
When every eye was dim,
As o'er their hero's buried corpse
They sang the funeral hymn;
And they had trod the Pass once more,
And stooped on either side
To pluck the heather from the spot
Where he had dropped and died;
And they had bound it next their hearts,
And ta'en a last farewell
Of Scottish earth and Scottish sky,
Where Scotland's glory fell.
160
Like bent and broken men,
Who leave their dearest hope behind,
And may not turn again.
VI.
“The stream,” he said, “is broad and deep,And stubborn is the foe—
Yon island-strength is guarded well—
Say, brothers, will ye go?
From home and kin for many a year
Our steps have wandered wide,
And never may our bones be laid
Our fathers' graves beside.
No children have we to lament,
No wives to wail our fall;
The traitor's and the spoiler's hand
Have reft our hearths of all.
But we have hearts, and we have arms,
As strong to will and dare
161
Within the northern air.
Come, brothers! let me name a spell
Shall rouse your souls again,
And send the old blood bounding free
Through pulse, and heart, and vein.
Call back the days of bygone years—
Be young and strong once more;
Think yonder stream, so stark and red,
Is one we've crossed before.
Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!
Rise up on either hand—
Again upon the Garry's banks,
On Scottish soil we stand!
Again I see the tartans wave,
Again the trumpets ring;
Again I hear our leader's call—
‘Upon them for the King!’
Stayed we behind that glorious day
For roaring flood or linn?
The soul of Græme is with us still—
Now, brothers! will ye in?”
162
VII.
No stay—no pause. With one accordThey grasped each other's hand,
Then plunged into the angry flood,
That bold and dauntless band.
High flew the spray above their heads,
Yet onward still they bore,
Midst cheer, and shout, and answering yell,
And shot, and cannon-roar—
“Now, by the Holy Cross! I swear,
Since earth and sea began,
Was never such a daring deed
Essayed by mortal man!”
VIII.
Thick blew the smoke across the stream,And faster flashed the flame:
The water plashed in hissing jets
As ball and bullet came.
Yet onwards pushed the Cavaliers
All stern and undismayed,
163
And none behind to aid.
Once, as they neared the middle stream,
So strong the torrent swept,
That scarce that long and living wall
Their dangerous footing kept.
Then rose a warning cry behind,
A joyous shout before:
“The current's strong—the way is long—
They'll never reach the shore!
See, see! they stagger in the midst,
They waver in their line!
Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,
And whelm them in the Rhine!”
IX.
Have you seen the tall trees swayingWhen the blast is sounding shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury
Down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches,
Struggling with the tempest's shock;
164
Cleaving firmly to the rock?
Even so the Scottish warriors
Held their own against the river;
Though the water flashed around them,
Not an eye was seen to quiver;
Though the shot flew sharp and deadly,
Not a man relaxed his hold:
For their hearts were big and thrilling
With the mighty thoughts of old.
One word was spoke among them,
And through the ranks it spread—
“Remember our dead Claverhouse!”
Was all the Captain said.
Then, sternly bending forward,
They wrestled on awhile,
Until they cleared the heavy stream,
Then rushed towards the isle.
X.
The German heart is stout and true,The German arm is strong;
165
Where armèd foemen throng.
But never had they faced in field
So stern a charge before,
And never had they felt the sweep
Of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche
Adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs
Of rough and rapid Rhine—
Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven
Than came the Scottish band
Right up against the guarded trench,
And o'er it sword in hand.
In vain their leaders forward press—
They meet the deadly brand!
XI.
O lonely island of the Rhine—Where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands,
By those strong reapers thrown?
166
As, struggling through the rain,
She poured a wan and fitful light
On marsh, and stream, and plain?
A dreary spot with corpses strewn,
And bayonets glistening round;
A broken bridge, a stranded boat,
A bare and battered mound;
And one huge watch-fire's kindled pile,
That sent its quivering glare
To tell the leaders of the host
The conquering Scots were there!
XII.
And did they twine the laurel-wreathFor those who fought so well?
And did they honour those who lived,
And weep for those who fell?
What meed of thanks was given to them
Let agèd annals tell.
Why should they bring the laurel-wreath—
Why crown the cup with wine?
167
So freely on the Rhine—
A stranger band of beggared men
Had done the venturous deed:
The glory was to France alone,
The danger was their meed.
And what cared they for idle thanks
From foreign prince and peer?
What virtue had such honeyed words
The exiled heart to cheer?
What mattered it that men should vaunt
And loud and fondly swear,
That higher feat of chivalry
Was never wrought elsewhere?
They bore within their breasts the grief
That fame can never heal—
The deep, unutterable woe
Which none save exiles feel.
Their hearts were yearning for the land
They ne'er might see again—
For Scotland's high and heathered hills,
For mountain, loch, and glen—
168
Beyond the distant sea,
Beneath the green and daisied turf
Where they would gladly be!
XIII.
Long years went by. The lonely isleIn Rhine's impetuous flood
Has ta'en another name from those
Who bought it with their blood:
And, though the legend does not live—
For legends lightly die—
The peasant as he sees the stream
In winter rolling by,
And foaming o'er its channel-bed
Between him and the spot
Won by the warriors of the sword,
Still calls that deep and dangerous ford
The Passage of the Scot.
213
CHARLES EDWARD AT VERSAILLES
ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF CULLODEN
Take away that star and garter—
Hide them from my aching sight!
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
From my lonely room this night.
Fitting for the throneless exile
Is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver
'Neath the tapestry on the wall;
When the taper faintly dwindles
Like the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measure
Ne'er may hope to bound again.
Let the shadows gather round me
While I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan
Watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion
Far from every earthly sound—
Day of penance—day of passion—
Ever, as the year comes round:
Fatal day! whereon the latest
Die was cast for me and mine—
Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes
Of the hapless Stuart line!
Phantom-like, as in a mirror,
Rise the griesly scenes of Death—
There before me in its wildness,
Stretches bare Culloden's heath:
There the broken clans are scattered,
Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,
Hunger gnawing at their vitals,
Hope abandoned, all but pride—
Pride—and that supreme devotion
Which the Southron never knew,
And the hatred, deeply rankling,
'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.
Oh, my God! are these the remnants,
These the wrecks of the array,
That around the royal standard
Gathered on the glorious day,
When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley,
Thousands on their bended knees
Saw once more that stately ensign
Waving in the northern breeze!
When the noble Tullibardine
Stood beneath its weltering fold,
With the Ruddy Lion ramping
In its field of tressured gold!
When the mighty heart of Scotland,
All too big to slumber more,
Burst in wrath and exultation
Like a huge volcano's roar!
There they stand, the battered columns,
Underneath the murky sky,
In the hush of desperation,
Not to conquer, but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:
Not the pibroch loud and shrill,
That, with hope of bloody banquet,
Lured the ravens from the hill—
But a dirge both low and solemn,
Fit for ears of dying men,
Marshalled for their latest battle,
Never more to fight again.
Madness—madness! Why this shrinking?
Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept the harvest
From the field of red Dunbar?
Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!
Call the riders of Fitz-James:
Let Lord Lewis head the column!
Valiant chiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry!
Gallant Gordon! wise Locheill!
Bid the clansmen hold together,
Fast and fell, and firm as steel.
Elcho! never look so gloomy—
What avails a saddened brow?
Heart, man! heart!—We need it sorely,
Never half so much as now.
Had we but a thousand troopers,
Had we but a thousand more!
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!
Hark! the English cannons' roar.
God! how awful sounds that volley,
Bellowing through the mist and rain!
Was not that the Highland slogan?
Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness
How the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would not fear thee,
Could my Camerons see their foes.
Sound, I say, the charge at venture—
'Tis not naked steel we fear:
Better perish in the mêlée
Than be shot like driven deer!
Hold! the mist begins to scatter!
There in front 'tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy bastion crumbles
Underneath the deafening thunder.
There I see the scarlet gleaming!
Now, Macdonald,—now or never!—
Woe is me, the clans are broken!
Father, thou art lost for ever!
Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,
There they lie in heaps together,
Smitten by the deadly volley,
Rolled in blood upon the heather;
And the Hanoverian horsemen,
Fiercely riding to and fro,
Deal their murderous strokes at random.—
Hide them from my aching sight!
Neither king nor prince shall tempt me
From my lonely room this night.
Fitting for the throneless exile
Is the atmosphere of pall,
And the gusty winds that shiver
'Neath the tapestry on the wall;
214
Like the pulse within the vein,
That to gay and merry measure
Ne'er may hope to bound again.
Let the shadows gather round me
While I sit in silence here,
Broken-hearted, as an orphan
Watching by his father's bier.
Let me hold my still communion
Far from every earthly sound—
Day of penance—day of passion—
Ever, as the year comes round:
Fatal day! whereon the latest
Die was cast for me and mine—
Cruel day, that quelled the fortunes
Of the hapless Stuart line!
Phantom-like, as in a mirror,
Rise the griesly scenes of Death—
There before me in its wildness,
Stretches bare Culloden's heath:
There the broken clans are scattered,
Gaunt as wolves, and famine-eyed,
215
Hope abandoned, all but pride—
Pride—and that supreme devotion
Which the Southron never knew,
And the hatred, deeply rankling,
'Gainst the Hanoverian crew.
Oh, my God! are these the remnants,
These the wrecks of the array,
That around the royal standard
Gathered on the glorious day,
When, in deep Glenfinnan's valley,
Thousands on their bended knees
Saw once more that stately ensign
Waving in the northern breeze!
When the noble Tullibardine
Stood beneath its weltering fold,
With the Ruddy Lion ramping
In its field of tressured gold!
When the mighty heart of Scotland,
All too big to slumber more,
Burst in wrath and exultation
Like a huge volcano's roar!
216
Underneath the murky sky,
In the hush of desperation,
Not to conquer, but to die.
Hark! the bagpipe's fitful wailing:
Not the pibroch loud and shrill,
That, with hope of bloody banquet,
Lured the ravens from the hill—
But a dirge both low and solemn,
Fit for ears of dying men,
Marshalled for their latest battle,
Never more to fight again.
Madness—madness! Why this shrinking?
Were we less inured to war
When our reapers swept the harvest
From the field of red Dunbar?
Bring my horse, and blow the trumpet!
Call the riders of Fitz-James:
Let Lord Lewis head the column!
Valiant chiefs of mighty names—
Trusty Keppoch! stout Glengarry!
Gallant Gordon! wise Locheill!
217
Fast and fell, and firm as steel.
Elcho! never look so gloomy—
What avails a saddened brow?
Heart, man! heart!—We need it sorely,
Never half so much as now.
Had we but a thousand troopers,
Had we but a thousand more!
Noble Perth, I hear them coming!
Hark! the English cannons' roar.
God! how awful sounds that volley,
Bellowing through the mist and rain!
Was not that the Highland slogan?
Let me hear that shout again!
Oh, for prophet eyes to witness
How the desperate battle goes!
Cumberland! I would not fear thee,
Could my Camerons see their foes.
Sound, I say, the charge at venture—
'Tis not naked steel we fear:
Better perish in the mêlée
Than be shot like driven deer!
218
There in front 'tis rent asunder,
And the cloudy bastion crumbles
Underneath the deafening thunder.
There I see the scarlet gleaming!
Now, Macdonald,—now or never!—
Woe is me, the clans are broken!
Father, thou art lost for ever!
Chief and vassal, lord and yeoman,
There they lie in heaps together,
Smitten by the deadly volley,
Rolled in blood upon the heather;
And the Hanoverian horsemen,
Fiercely riding to and fro,
Deal their murderous strokes at random.—
Ah, my God! where am I now?
Will that baleful vision never
Vanish from my aching sight?
Must those scenes and sounds of terror
Haunt me still by day and night?
Yea! the earth hath no oblivion
For the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge—
Seek it only in the grave!
Love may die, and hatred slumber,
And their memory will decay,
As the watered garden recks not
Of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken,
What shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies
Coiled around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer
Strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant
Than to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—
What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied
As a wasted cripple's knee!
Suppliant-like for alms depending
On a false and foreign court;
Jostled by the flouting nobles,
Half their pity, half their sport,
Forced to hold a place in pageant
Like a royal prize of war,
Walking with dejected features
Close behind his victor's car;
Styled an equal—deemed a servant—
Fed with hopes of future gain:
Worse by far is fancied freedom
Than the captive's clanking chain!
Could I change this gilded bondage
Even for the dusky tower,
Whence King James beheld his lady
Sitting in the castle bower;
Birds around her sweetly singing,
Fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowing
In the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window—
Love removed the bolt and bar—
Love was warder to the lovers
From the dawn to even-star.
Wherefore, Love! didst thou betray me?
Where is now the tender glance—
Where the meaning looks once lavished
By the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whispered,
When around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broidered tissue,
Bade me wear it and be true—
Bade me send it as a token
When my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London,
Where my father's waved before?
And I went and did not conquer—
But I brought it back again—
Brought it back from storm and battle—
Brought it back without a stain;
And once more I knelt before her,
And I laid it at her feet,
Saying, “Wilt thou own it, Princess?
There at least is no defeat!”
Scornfully she looked upon me
With a measured eye and cold—
Scornfully she viewed the token,
Though her fingers wrought the gold;
And she answered, faintly flushing,
“Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
Worthy matter for a minstrel
To be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provençal,
Pacing o'er the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady's favour,
Boasting of her silken chain—
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
Sent to wrestle for a crown!
Is this all that thou hast brought me
From thy fields of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carried
From the lands where thou hast been?
It was broidered by a Princess,
Canst thou give it to a Queen?”
Vanish from my aching sight?
Must those scenes and sounds of terror
Haunt me still by day and night?
219
For the noblest chance it gave,
None, save in its latest refuge—
Seek it only in the grave!
Love may die, and hatred slumber,
And their memory will decay,
As the watered garden recks not
Of the drought of yesterday;
But the dream of power once broken,
What shall give repose again?
What shall charm the serpent-furies
Coiled around the maddening brain?
What kind draught can nature offer
Strong enough to lull their sting?
Better to be born a peasant
Than to live an exiled king!
Oh, these years of bitter anguish!—
What is life to such as me,
With my very heart as palsied
As a wasted cripple's knee!
Suppliant-like for alms depending
On a false and foreign court;
220
Half their pity, half their sport,
Forced to hold a place in pageant
Like a royal prize of war,
Walking with dejected features
Close behind his victor's car;
Styled an equal—deemed a servant—
Fed with hopes of future gain:
Worse by far is fancied freedom
Than the captive's clanking chain!
Could I change this gilded bondage
Even for the dusky tower,
Whence King James beheld his lady
Sitting in the castle bower;
Birds around her sweetly singing,
Fluttering on the kindled spray,
And the comely garden glowing
In the light of rosy May.
Love descended to the window—
Love removed the bolt and bar—
Love was warder to the lovers
From the dawn to even-star.
221
Where is now the tender glance—
Where the meaning looks once lavished
By the dark-eyed Maid of France?
Where the words of hope she whispered,
When around my neck she threw
That same scarf of broidered tissue,
Bade me wear it and be true—
Bade me send it as a token
When my banner waved once more
On the castled Keep of London,
Where my father's waved before?
And I went and did not conquer—
But I brought it back again—
Brought it back from storm and battle—
Brought it back without a stain;
And once more I knelt before her,
And I laid it at her feet,
Saying, “Wilt thou own it, Princess?
There at least is no defeat!”
Scornfully she looked upon me
With a measured eye and cold—
222
Though her fingers wrought the gold;
And she answered, faintly flushing,
“Hast thou kept it, then, so long?
Worthy matter for a minstrel
To be told in knightly song!
Worthy of a bold Provençal,
Pacing o'er the peaceful plain,
Singing of his lady's favour,
Boasting of her silken chain—
Yet scarce worthy of a warrior
Sent to wrestle for a crown!
Is this all that thou hast brought me
From thy fields of high renown?
Is this all the trophy carried
From the lands where thou hast been?
It was broidered by a Princess,
Canst thou give it to a Queen?”
Woman's love is writ in water!
Woman's faith is traced on sand!—
Backwards—backwards let me wander
To the noble northern land:
Let me feel the breezes blowing
Fresh along the mountain side!
Let me see the purple heather,
Let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
Spouting when the storm is high—
Give me but one hour of Scotland—
Let me see it ere I die!
Oh! my heart is sick and heavy—
Southern gales are not for me;
Though the glens are white with winter,
Place me there and set me free.
Give me back my trusty comrades—
Give me back my Highland maid—
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly
As beneath the tartan plaid!
Flora! when thou wert beside me,
In the wilds of far Kintail—
When the cavern gave us shelter
From the blinding sleet and hail—
When we lurked within the thicket,
And, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer,
Heard him chaunt his listless tune—
When the howling storm o'ertook us,
Drifting down the island's lee,
And our crazy bark was whirling
Like a nutshell on the sea—
When the nights were dark and dreary,
And amidst the fern we lay,
Faint and foodless, sore with travel,
Waiting for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel to me,
Watching my exhausted sleep—
Never didst thou hear me murmur—
Couldst thou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,
Unavailing though they be.
Oh! the brave—the brave and noble—
That have died in vain for me!
Woman's faith is traced on sand!—
223
To the noble northern land:
Let me feel the breezes blowing
Fresh along the mountain side!
Let me see the purple heather,
Let me hear the thundering tide,
Be it hoarse as Corrievreckan
Spouting when the storm is high—
Give me but one hour of Scotland—
Let me see it ere I die!
Oh! my heart is sick and heavy—
Southern gales are not for me;
Though the glens are white with winter,
Place me there and set me free.
Give me back my trusty comrades—
Give me back my Highland maid—
Nowhere beats the heart so kindly
As beneath the tartan plaid!
Flora! when thou wert beside me,
In the wilds of far Kintail—
When the cavern gave us shelter
From the blinding sleet and hail—
224
And, beneath the waning moon,
Saw the sentry's bayonet glimmer,
Heard him chaunt his listless tune—
When the howling storm o'ertook us,
Drifting down the island's lee,
And our crazy bark was whirling
Like a nutshell on the sea—
When the nights were dark and dreary,
And amidst the fern we lay,
Faint and foodless, sore with travel,
Waiting for the streaks of day;
When thou wert an angel to me,
Watching my exhausted sleep—
Never didst thou hear me murmur—
Couldst thou see how now I weep!
Bitter tears and sobs of anguish,
Unavailing though they be.
Oh! the brave—the brave and noble—
That have died in vain for me!
249
THE OLD SCOTTISH CAVALIER
I
Come listen to another song,Should make your heart beat high,
Bring crimson to your forehead,
And the lustre to your eye;—
It is a song of olden time,
Of days long since gone by,
And of a baron stout and bold
As e'er wore sword on thigh!
Like a brave old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
250
II
He kept his castle in the north,Hard by the thundering Spey;
And a thousand vassals dwelt around,
All of his kindred they.
And not a man of all that clan
Had ever ceased to pray
For the Royal race they loved so well,
Though exiled far away
From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
III
His father drew the righteous swordFor Scotland and her claims,
Among the loyal gentlemen
And chiefs of ancient names,
Who swore to fight or fall beneath
The standard of King James,
And died at Killiecrankie Pass,
With the glory of the Græmes;
Like a true old Scottish cavalier
All of the olden time!
251
IV
He never owned the foreign rule,No master he obeyed,
But kept his clan in peace at home,
From foray and from raid;
And when they asked him for his oath,
He touched his glittering blade,
And pointed to his bonnet blue,
That bore the white cockade:
Like a leal old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
V
At length the news ran through the land—The Prince had come again!
That night the fiery cross was sped
O'er mountain and through glen;
And our old baron rose in might,
Like a lion from his den,
And rode away across the hills
To Charlie and his men,
With the valiant Scottish cavaliers,
All of the olden time!
252
VI
He was the first that bent the kneeWhen the Standard waved abroad,
He was the first that charged the foe
On Preston's bloody sod;
And ever, in the van of fight,
The foremost still he trod,
Until on bleak Culloden's heath,
He gave his soul to God,
Like a good old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
VII
Oh! never shall we know againA heart so stout and true—
The olden times have passed away,
And weary are the new:
The fair white rose has faded
From the garden where it grew,
And no fond tears save those of heaven,
The glorious bed bedew
Of the last old Scottish cavalier,
All of the olden time!
| Lays of the Scottish cavaliers and other poems | |