Golden Numbers Part 38

_Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ _O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_

The great now are gane, wha attempted to save; The new gra.s.s is springing on the tap o' their grave: But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, "I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie."

_Hame, hame, hame! oh hame I fain wad be,_ _Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!_

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

_My Heart's in the Highlands_

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, The birthplace of valor, the country of worth; Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, The hills of the Highlands forever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here, My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go.

ROBERT BURNS.

_The Minstrel-Boy_

The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, In the ranks of death you'll find him; His father's sword he has girded on, And his wild harp slung behind him.-- "Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, "Though all the world betrays thee, One sword, at least, thy rights shall guard, One faithful harp shall praise thee!"

The Minstrel fell!--but the foeman's chain Could not bring his proud soul under; The harp he loved ne'er spoke again, For he tore its chords asunder; And said, "No chains shall sully thee, Thou soul of love and bravery!

Thy songs were made for the pure and free, They shall never sound in slavery!"

THOMAS MOORE.

_The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls_

The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled.

So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, Now feel that pulse no more.

No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night; Its tale of ruin tells.

Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives.

THOMAS MOORE.

_Fife and Drum_

The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms.

The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat."

JOHN DRYDEN.

_From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day."_

_The Cavalier's Song_

A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene!

All else to n.o.ble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meane.

The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The rowlinge of the drum, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; And oh! the thundering presse of knightes, Whenas their war cryes swell, May tole from heaven an angel bright.

And rouse a fiend from h.e.l.l.

Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe.

No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand-- Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die!

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

_The Old Scottish Cavalier_

Come listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the l.u.s.ter 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!

He kept his castle in the north.

Hard by the thundering Spey; And a thousand va.s.sals 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 laved so well, Though exiled far away From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers All of the olden time!

His father drew the righteous sword For 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 Pa.s.s With the glory of the Graemes; Like a true old Scottish cavalier All of the olden time!

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 c.o.c.kade: Like a leal old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

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!

He was the first that bent the knee When the STANDARD waved abroad, He was the first that charged the foe On Preston's b.l.o.o.d.y sod; And ever, in the van of fight, The foremost still he trod, Until on bleak Culloden's heath, He gave his soul to G.o.d, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time!

Oh never shall we know again A heart so stout and true-- The olden times have pa.s.sed 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!

WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN.

_The Song of the Camp_

"Give us a song!" the soldiers cried, The outer trenches guarding, When the heated guns of the camps allied Grew weary of bombarding.

The dark Redan, in silent scoff, Lay, grim and threatening, under; And the tawny mound of the Malakoff No longer belched its thunder.

There was a pause. A guardsman said: "We storm the forts to-morrow; Sing while we may, another day Will bring enough of sorrow."

They lay along the battery's side, Below the smoking cannon,-- Brave hearts, from Severn and from Clyde, And from the banks of Shannon.

They sang of love, and not of fame; Forgot was Britain's glory; Each heart recalled a different name, But all sang "Annie Laurie."

Voice after voice caught up the song, Until its tender pa.s.sion Rose like an anthem rich and strong,-- Their battle eve confession.