103

GATHERING SONG OF BLACK DONALD

PIBROCH of Donuil Dhu,

Pibroch of Donuil,
Wake thy wild voice anew,
Summon Clan Conuil.
Come away, come away,
Hark to the summons!
Come in your war-array,
Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen, and
From mountain so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlocky.

Come every hill-plaid, and

True heart that wears one,
Come every steel blade, and
Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd,
The flock without shelter;
Leave the corpse uninterred,
The bride at the altar;
Leave the deer, leave the steer,
Leave nets and barges :
Come with your fighting gear,
Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come, when
Forests are rended,

Come as the waves come, when

Navies are stranded:

Faster come, faster come,

Faster and faster,

Chief, vassal, page and groom,

Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come;
See how they gather!

Wide waves the eagle plume

Blended with heather.

Cast your plaids, draw your blades,

Forward each man set!

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu

Knell for the onset!

Sir Walter Scott.

104

BEFORE THE BATTLE

By the hope within us springing,
Herald of to-morrow's strife;
By that sun whose light is bringing
Chains or freedom, death or life—
Oh, remember life can be

No charm for him who lives not free!
Like the day-star in the wave

Sinks a hero in his grave,

'Midst the dew-fall of a nation's tears.

Happy is he o'er whose decline

The smiles of home may soothing shine, And light him down the steep of yearsBut oh, how blessed they sink to rest, Who close their eyes on victory's breast!

O'er his watch-fire's fading embers

Now the foeman's cheek turns white, When his heart that field remembers,

Where we tamed his tyrant might!

Never let him bind again

A chain, like that we broke from then.
Hark! the horn of combat calls-
Ere the golden evening falls,

May we pledge that horn in triumph round!

Many a heart that now beats high,
In slumber cold at night shall lie,

Nor waken even at victory's sound-
But oh, how blessed that hero's sleep,
O'er whom a wondering world shall weep.

Thomas Moore.

105

THE RED HARLAW

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle,
And listen great and sma',
And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl
That fought on the red Harlaw.

The cronach's cried on Bennachie,
And doun the Don and a',

And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be
For the sair field of Harlaw.

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds,
They hae bridled a hundred black,
With a chafron of steel on each horse's head,
And a good knight upon his back.

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile,

A mile, but barely ten,

When Donald came branking down the brae
Wi' twenty thousand men.

Their tartans they were waving wide,
Their glaives were glancing clear,
The pibrochs rung frae side to side,
Would deafen ye to hear.

The great Earl in his stirrups stood
That Highland host to see:

'Now here a knight that's stout and good
May prove a jeopardie.

'What would'st thou do, my squire so gay,
That rides beside my rein,
Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day,

And I were Roland Cheyne?

'To turn the rein were sin and shame,
To fight were wondrous peril,-
What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne,
Were ye Glenallan's Earl?'

'Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide,
And ye were Roland Cheyne,
The spur should be in my horse's side,
And the bridle upon his mane.

'If they hae twenty thousand blades,
And we twice ten times ten,
Yet they hae but their tartan plaids,
And we are mail-clad men.

'My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude,
As through the moorland fern,—

Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude
Grow cauld for Highland kerne!'

Sir Walter Scott.

106

THE ASSAULT

(The Siege of Corinth.)

THE night is past, and shines the sun
As if that morn were a jocund one,
Lightly and brightly breaks away
The morning from her mantle grey,

And the noon will look on a sultry day.

Hark to the trump, and the drum,

And the mournful sound of the barbarous horn,

And the flap of the banners, that flit as they're borne,

And the neigh of the steed, and the multitude's

hum,

And the clash, and the shout, 'They come! they come!'

The horsetails are plucked from the ground, and the sword

From its sheath; and they form, and but wait for the word.

Tartar, and Spahi, and Turcoman,

Strike your tents, and throng to the van;
Mount ye, spur ye, skirr the plain,

That the fugitive may flee in vain,

When he breaks from the town; and none escape,
Aged or young, in the Christian shape;
While your fellows on foot in a fiery mass,
Bloodstain the breach through which they pass.
The steeds are all bridled, and snort to the rein;
Curved is each neck, and flowing each mane;
White is the foam of their champ on the bit:
The spears are uplifted; the matches are lit;
The cannon are pointed, and ready to roar,
And crush the wall they have crumbled before:
Forms in his phalanx each Janizar;

Alp at their head; his right armn is bare,
So is the blade of his scimitar;

The khan and the pachas are all at their post;
The vizier himself at the head of the host.
When the culverin's signal is fired, then on :
Leave not in Corinth a living one-

A priest at her altars, a chief in her halls,

A hearth in her mansions, a stone on her walls.
God and the prophet-Alla Hu!

Up to the skies with that wild halloo !

'There the breach lies for passage, the ladder to scale;

And your hands on your sabres, and how should ye fail!

He who first downs with the red cross may crave

His heart's dearest wish; let him ask it, and have!