WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?
By the side of a spring on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.
The Knight's bones are dust.
And his good sword rust ;—
His soul is with the saints, I trust.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBURN
Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has often led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victory!
Now's the day and now's the hour:
See the front o' battle lower:
See approach proud Edward's power—-
Chains and slavery !
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freemen stand, or freeman fa',
Let him follow me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins
But they shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow !--
Let us do or die!
THE SOLDIER'S FAREWELL TO HIS LOVE
FAREWELL to Lochaber, and farewell my Jean,
Where heartsome wi' her I ha'e mony a day been;
For Lochaber no more, Lochaber no more,
We'll maybe return to Lochaber no more.
These tears that I shed they are a' for my dear,
And no for the dangers attending on weir;
Though borne on rough seas to a far distant shore,
Maybe to return to Lochaber no more.
Though hurricanes rise, though rise every wind, No tempest can equal the storm in my mind; Though loudest of thunders on louder waves roar, There's naething like leaving my love on the shore. To leave thee behind me my heart is sair pained, But by case that's inglorious no fame can be gained, And beauty and love's the command of the brave, And I maun deserve it before I can crave.
Then glory, my Jeanie, maun plead my excuse; Since honour commands me, how can I refuse? Without it I ne'er could have merit for thee, And losing thy favour I'd better not be.
I gae then, my lass, to win honour and fame, And if I should chance to come glorious hame, I'll bring a heart to thee with love running o'er, And then I'll leave thee and Lochaber no more.
WHEN Britain first at Heaven's command Arose from out the azure main, This was the charter of her land, And guardian angels sung the strain: Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves! Britons never shall be slaves.
The nations not so blest as thee
Must in their turn to tyrants fall,
Whilst thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke ; As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame;
All their attempts to bend thee down
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
And work their woe and thy renown.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine!
The Muses, still with Freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Blest Isle, with matchless beauty crowned
And manly hearts to guard the fair :—
Rule, Britannia! Britannia rules the waves!
Britons never shall be slaves!
(Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, upon the restoration of Lord Clifford, the Shepherd, to the estates and honours of his ancestors.)
FROM town to town, from tower to tower,
The Red Rose is a gladsome flower.
Her thirty years of winter past,
The Red Rose is revived at last;
She lifts her head for endless spring,
For everlasting blossoming:
Both Roses flourish, Red and White.
In love and sisterly delight
The two that were at strife are blended,
And all old troubles now are ended.—
Joy, joy to both! but most to her
Who is the flower of Lancaster!
Behold her how she smiles to-day
On this great throng, this bright array
Fair greeting doth she send to all
From every corner of the hall;
But chiefly from above the board
Where sits in state our rightful Lord,
A Clifford to his own restored!
They came with banner, spear, and shield;
And it was proved in Bosworth-field,
Not long the Avenger was withstood-
Earth helped him with the cry of blood :
St. George was for us, and the might
Of blessed angels crowned the right.
Loud voice the land has uttered forth,
We loudest in the faithful North:
Our fields rejoice, our mountains ring,
Our streams proclaim a welcoming;
Our strong abodes and castles see
The glory of their loyalty.
How glad is Skipton at this hour-
Though she is but a lonely tower,
To vacancy and silence left,
Of all her guardian sons bereft!
Knight, squire, or yeomen, page or groom,
We have them at the feast of Brougham.
How glad Pendragon--though the sleep
Of years be on her !-She shall reap
A taste of this great pleasure, viewing
As in a dream her own renewing.
Rejoiced is Brough, right glad I deem
Beside her little humble stream;
And she that keepeth watch and ward
Her statelier Eden's course to guard;
They both are happy at this hour,
Though each is but a lonely tower :-
But here is perfect joy and pride
For one fair house by Eamont's side,
This day distinguished without peer
To see her master and to cheer-
Him, and his lady-mother dear!
Oh! it was a time forlorn
When the fatherless was born--
Give her wings that she may fly,
Or she sees her infant die!
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