That keeps men free forever! O, the sight entrancing, When morning's beam is glancing With helm and blade, And plumes in the gay wind dancing. THOMAS MOORE. WAR'S LOUD ALARMS. WAR'S loud alarms Call me to arms; Honor bids me quit thy charms; Entreat me then no more to stay, And burns to meet the foe. Within a lady's bower! The power of Cupid I defy, When Cambria's banner waves on high, When hurtles through the darkened sky The arrow's deadly shower. Then mount and away! let the coward delight To be lazy all day and safe all night; | Our joy is a charger, flecked with foam, And the earth is our bed and the saddle our home: See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe, you would fight; Then charge! with a will, boys, and God for the right! And whether we fight, etc. We have gathered again the red laurels of war ; ROSSITER W. RAYMOND. SONG OF THE CAVALRY. OUR good steeds snuff the evening air, Each carbine send its whizzing ball: Dash on beneath the smoking dome : Through level lightnings gallop nearer! One look to Heaven! No thoughts of home: The guidons that we bear are dearer. CHARGE! Cling clang! forward all! Heaven help those whose horses fall: They flee before our fierce attack! They fall they spread in broken surges. Now, comrades, bear our wounded back, And leave the foeman to his dirges. WHEEL! The bugles sound the swift recall : Home, and good night! EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN. GATHERING SONG OF DONALD THE BLACK. 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 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 Come as the waves come when Faster and faster, Fast they come, fast they come ; 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. THE TROOPER'S DEATH. THE weary night is o'er at last! Ere dying. Thou, springing grass, that art so green, I drink the first glass, sword in hand, Lies dying! HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances ! Earth lend it sap anew, Sends our shout back again, Ours is no sapling, chance-sown by the fountain, Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade; When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain, The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. Moored in the rifted rock, Proof to the tempest's shock, Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow; [Charles Theodore Körner was a young German soldier, scholar, poet, and patriot. He was born at Dresden in the autumn of 1791, and fell in battle for his country at the early age of twenty-two. The "Sword Song," so called, was written in his pocket-book only two hours before he fell, during a halt in a wood previous to the engagement, and was read by him to a comrade just as the signal was given for battle. This bold song represents the soldier chiding his sword, which, under the image of his iron bride, is impatient to come forth from her chamber, the scabbard, and be wedded to him on the field of battle, where each soldier shall press the blade to his lips. Körner fell in an engagement with superior numbers near a thicket in the neighborhood of Rosenburg. He had advanced in pursuit of the flying foe too far beyond his comrades. They buried him under an old oak on the site of the battle, and carved his name on the trunk.] SWORD, on my left side gleaming, It makes my spirit dance To see thy friendly glance. Hurrah! "A valiant rider bears me; Yes, good sword, I am free, "And I to thee, by Heaven, The trumpet's solemn warning Shall hail the bridal morning. When cannon-thunders wake Then my true-love I take. Hurrah! "O blessed, blessed meeting! My heart is wildly beating: Come, bridegroom, come for me; My garland waiteth thee." Hurrah! Why in the scabbard rattle, "Well may thy prisoner rattle; Stay in thy chamber near, "Let me not longer wait : Now, then, come forth, my bride! Come out, my good sword, come! "O, in the field to prance Then forward, valiant fighters! Once on the left it hung, Doth God each fond bride plight. Then let your hot lips feel Now let the loved one sing; Hurrah! For, hark! the trumpet's warning Hurrah! From the German, Then shook the hills with thunder riven, But redder yet that light shall glow 'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Few, few shall part where many meet! THOMAS CAMPBELL. THE MARKET WIFE'S SONG. THE butter an' the cheese weel stowit they be, I sit on the coop, I look straight before, But my heart it is awa' the braid ocean owre, by CHARLES T. BROOKS. I see the bluidy fiel' where my ain bonny chiel, HOHENLINDEN. ON Linden, when the sun was low, But Linden saw another sight By torch and trumpet fast arrayed, I see the gran' toun o' the big forrin' loun, I hear the cannon soun', I see the reek aboon; It may be lang John lettin' aff his gun, An' I ken the Black Sea, ayont the rock o' dool, Then a bull roars fra' the scaur, ilka rock's a | With neck out-thrust, you fancy how, bull agen, Legs wide, arms locked behind, An' I hear the trump o' war, an' the carse is fu' As if to balance the prone brow, o' men, Up an' doun the morn I ken the bugle-horn, Ilka birdie sma' is a fleein' cannon ba', An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa. Oppressive with its mind. Just as perhaps he mused, "My plans Let once my army-leader Lannes Guid Heavens! the Russian host! We maun Out 'twixt the battery-smokes there flew e'en gie up for lost! Gin ye gain the battle hae ye countit a' the cost? Ye may win a gran' name, but wad wee Jack come hame? Dinna fecht, dinna fecht! there's room for us a'! An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa. In vain, in vain, in vain! They are marching near and far! Then forth fra' their ban' there steps an armèd man, His tairge at his breast an' his claymore in his han', His gowd pow glitters fine an' his shadow fa's behin', I think o' great Goliath as he stan's before them a', An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa. To meet the Philistine leaps a laddie fra' our line, O, my heart! O, my heart! 't is that wee lad o' mine! I start to my legs — an' doun fa' the eggs - O Jock, my Hielan' lad-O Jock, my Hielan' lad, Never till I saw thee that moment was I glad! Aye sooner sud thou dee before thy mother's ee' Than a man o' the clan sud hae stept out but thee! An' sae I cry to God—while the hens cackle a', An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld wheels twa. SIDNEY Dobell. INCIDENT OF THE FRENCH CAMP. A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound. Then off there flung in smiling joy, By just his horse's mane, a boy: "Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans The chief's eye flashed; but presently A film the mother-eagle's eye When her bruised eaglet breathes : "You're wounded!" "Nay," his soldier's pride Touched to the quick, he said: "I'm killed, sire!" And, his chief beside, Smiling, the boy fell dead. |