The Modern Scottish Minstrel Volume V Part 38

From the far bosom of the sea A flood of brightness rests on thee, And stately to the bending skies Thy temples, domes, and turrets rise: Thy heavens--how fair they smile above!

But thou art not the land we love.

Oh, for the bleak, the rocky strand, The mountains of our native land!

Oh, for the torrents, wild, and free, And their rejoicing minstrelsy!

The heath below, the blue above, The altars of the land we love!

IS NOT THE EARTH.

Is not the earth a burial place Where countless millions sleep, The entrance to the abode of death, Where waiting mourners weep, And myriads at his silent gates A constant vigil keep?

The sculptor lifts his chisel, and The final stroke is come, But, dull as the marble lip he hews, His stiffened lip is dumb; Though the Spoiler hath cast a holier work, He hath called to a holier home!

The soldier bends his gleaming steel, He counts his laurels o'er, And speaks of the wreaths he yet may win On many a foreign sh.o.r.e; But his Master declares with a sterner voice, He shall break a lance no more!

The mariner braved the deluge long, He bow'd to the sweeping blast, And smiled when the frowning heavens above Were the deepest overcast; He hath perish'd beneath a smiling sky-- He hath laid him down at last.

Far in the sea's mysterious depths The lowly dead are laid, Hath not the ocean's dreadful voice Their burial service said?

Have not the quiring tempests rung The dirges of the dead?

The vales of our native land are strewn With a thousand pleasant things; The uplands rejoicing in the light Of the morning's flashing wings; Even there are the martyrs' rugged cairns-- The resting-place of kings!

And man outpours his heart to heaven, And "chants his holiest hymn,"

But anon his frame is still and cold, And his sparkling eyes are dim-- And who can tell but the home of death Is a happier home to him?

OH, LOVE THE SOLDIER'S DAUGHTER DEAR![14]

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear-- He fell on Balaklava's plain, Yet ere he found a soldier's bier He blest his beauteous child again; Though o'er the Light Brigade like rain, War's deadly lightning swiftly fell, On--on the squadron charged amain Amidst that storm of shot and sh.e.l.l!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose n.o.ble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear-- Even like a knight of old romance, Brave Cardigan, disdaining fear, Heard but the bugle sound--advance!

And paler droops the flower of France, And brighter glows proud England's rose, As charge they on with sabre-glance, And thunders thickening as they close!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, And be thy grateful kindness shewn; And still her father's name revere, For, oh, 'tis dearer than her own; And tell his deeds in battle done, And how he fearless faced the foe, And urged the snorting war-horse on With death above, around, below!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, &c.

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, Who lowly bends at sorrow's shrine; Her father's glorious deeds appear, And laurels round her brow entwine; In that full eye, that seems divine, Her sire's commanding ardour glows; His blood, that flow'd for thee and thine, Within his daughter's bosom flows!

Oh, love the soldier's daughter dear, A jewel in his heart was she, Whose n.o.ble form disdain'd the storm, And, Freedom, fought and died for thee!

FOOTNOTES:

[14] This song, and the following, have been contributed by Mr Sinclair to the present work.

THE BATTLE OF STIRLING.

To Scotland's ancient realm Proud Edward's armies came, To sap our freedom, and o'erwhelm Our martial force in shame: "It shall not be!" brave Wallace cried; "It shall not be!" his chiefs replied; "By the name our fathers gave her, Our steel shall drink the crimson stream, We 'll all her dearest rights redeem-- Our own broadswords shall save her!"

With hopes of triumph flush'd, The squadrons hurried o'er Thy bridge, Kildean, and heaving rush'd Like wild waves to the sh.o.r.e: "They come--they come!" was the gallant cry; "They come--they come!" was the loud reply; "O strength, thou gracious Giver!

By Love and Freedom's stainless faith, We 'll dare the darkest night of death-- We 'll drive them back for ever!"

All o'er the waving broom, In chivalry and grace, Shone England's radiant spear and plume, By Stirling's rocky base: And, stretching far beneath the view, Proud Cressingham! thy banners flew, When, like a torrent rushing, O G.o.d! from right and left the flame Of Scottish swords like lightning came, Great Edward's legions crushing!

High praise, ye gallant band, Who, in the face of day, With a daring heart and a fearless hand, Have cast your chains away!

The foemen fell on every side-- In crimson hues the Forth was dyed-- Bedew'd with blood the heather, While cries triumphal shook the air-- "Thus shall they do, thus shall they dare, Wherever Scotsmen gather!"

Though years like shadows fleet O'er the dial-stone of Time, Thy pulse, O Freedom! still shall beat With the throb of manhood's prime!

Still shall the valour, love, and truth, That shone on Scotland's early youth, From Scotland ne'er dissever; The Shamrock, Rose, and Thistle stern Shall wave around her Wallace cairn, And bless the brave for ever!

WILLIAM MILLER.

The writer of Nursery Songs in "Whistle Binkie," William Miller, was born at Parkhead, Glasgow, about the year 1812. He follows the profession of a cabinet-turner in his native city. "Ye cowe a'," which we subjoin, amply ent.i.tles him to a place among the minstrels of his country.

YE COWE A'.

AIR--_"Comin' through the rye."_

I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's leafy shade And a' that fondest heart can feel, or tongue can tell, I said; But nae reply my la.s.sie gied--I blamed the waterfa'; Its deavin' soun' her voice might droun'. "Oh, it cowes a'!

Oh, it cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, it cowes a'!

I wonder how the birds can woo--oh, it cowes a'!"

I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to Kelvin's solemn grove, Where silence in her dewy bowers hush'd a' sounds but o' love; Still frae my earnest looks an' vows she turn'd her head awa'; Nae cheerin' word the silence heard. "Oh, this cowes a'!

Oh, this cowes a'!" quo' I; "oh, this cowes a'!"

To woo I 'll try anither way--for this cowes a'!"

I wiled my la.s.s wi' lovin' words to where the moonlight fell, Upon a bank o' bloomin' flowers, beside the pear-tree well; Say, modest moon, did I do wrang to clasp her waist sae sma', And steal ae kiss o' honey'd bliss? "Oh, ye cowe a'!

Oh, ye cowe a'!" quo' she; "oh, ye cowe a'!

Ye might hae speer'd a body's leave--oh, ye cowe a'!"

"I 'll to the clerk," quo' I, "sweet la.s.s; on Sunday we 'll be cried, And frae your father's house, next day, ye 'll gang a dear-lo'ed bride."