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That keeps men free forever!

O, the sight entrancing,

When morning's beam is glancing
O'er files arrayed

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;
To battle I must go.

Entreat me then no more to stay,
No longer can I brook delay,
My soul is eager for the fray,

And burns to meet the foe.
Ne'er shall it be said
A Briton bold from danger fled,
Or sought to hide his craven head

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.

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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:
And whether we fight, etc.

See yonder the ranks of the traitorous foe,
And bright in the sunshine bayonets glow!
Breathe a prayer, but no sigh; think for what

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 ;
We have followed the traitors fast and far;
But some who rose gayly this morn with the sun
Lie bleeding and pale on the field they have won!
But whether we fight, etc.

ROSSITER W. RAYMOND.

SONG OF THE CAVALRY.
FROM "ALICE OF MONMOUTH,"

OUR good steeds snuff the evening air,
Our pulses with their purpose tingle;
The foeman's fires are twinkling there;
He leaps to hear our sabers jingle!
HALT!

Each carbine send its whizzing ball:
Now, cling clang! forward all,
Into the fight!

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:
Cut left and right!

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 :
Cling! clang! backward all!

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
From mountains so rocky;
The war-pipe and pennon
Are at Inverlochy.
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.

THE TROOPER'S DEATH.

THE weary night is o'er at last!
We ride so still, we ride so fast!
We ride where Death is lying.
The morning wind doth coldly pass,
Landlord we'll take another glass,

Ere dying.

Thou, springing grass, that art so green,
Shalt soon be rosy red, I ween,
My blood the hue supplying!

I drink the first glass, sword in hand,
To him who for the Fatherland

Lies dying!

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HAIL to the Chief who in triumph advances !
Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine!
Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line!
Heaven send it happy dew,

Earth lend it sap anew,
Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
While every highland glen

Sends our shout back again,
"Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!"

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;

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[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,
What means thy bright eye's beaming?

It makes my spirit dance To see thy friendly glance. Hurrah!

"A valiant rider bears me;
A free-born German wears me :
That makes my eye so bright;
That is the sword's delight."
Hurrah!

Yes, good sword, I am free,
And love thee heartily,
And clasp thee to my side,
F'en as a plighted bride.
Hurrah!

"And I to thee, by Heaven,
My light steel life have given;
When shall the knot be tied?
When wilt thou take thy bride?"
Hurrah!

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,
So wild, so fierce for battle?
What means this restless glow?
My sword, why clatter so?
Hurrah!

"Well may thy prisoner rattle;
My spirit yearns for battle.
Rider, 't is war's wild glow
That makes me tremble so."
Hurrah!

Stay in thy chamber near,
My love; what wilt thou here?
Still in thy chamber bide:
Soon, soon I take my bride.
Hurrah!

"Let me not longer wait :
Love's garden blooms in state,
With roses bloody-red,
And many a bright death-bed."
Hurrah!

Now, then, come forth, my bride!
Come forth, thou rider's pride!

Come out, my good sword, come!
Forth to thy father's home!
Hurrah!

"O, in the field to prance
The glorious wedding dance!
How, in the sun's bright beams,
Bride-like the clear steel gleams!"
Hurrah!

Then forward, valiant fighters!
And forward, German riders!
And when the heart grows cold,
Let each his love infold.
Hurrah!

Once on the left it hung,
And stolen glances flung;
Now clearly on your right

Doth God each fond bride plight.
Hurrah!

Then let your hot lips feel
That virgin cheek of steel;
One kiss, and woe betide
Him who forsakes the bride.
Hurrah!

Now let the loved one sing;
Now let the clear blade ring,
Till the bright sparks shall fly,
Heralds of victory!

Hurrah!

For, hark! the trumpet's warning
Proclaims the marriage morning;
It dawns in festal pride;
Hurrah, thou Iron Bride!

Hurrah!

From the German,

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,
Then rushed the steeds to battle driven,
And louder than the bolts of heaven
Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glow
On Linden's hills of stainèd snow,
And bloodier yet the torrent flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

'Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun
Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,
Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,
Who rush to glory, or the grave!
Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,
And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!
The snow shall be their winding-sheet,
And every turf beneath their feet
Shall be a soldier's sepulcher.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE MARKET WIFE'S SONG.

THE butter an' the cheese weel stowit they be,
I sit on the hen-coop, the eggs on my knee,
The lang kail jigs as we jog owre the rigs,
The gray mare's tail it wags wi' the kail,
The warm simmer sky is blue aboon a',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld
wheels twa.

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,
My wee bairn o' a', gaed to fight or to fa',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld
wheels twa.

HOHENLINDEN.

ON Linden, when the sun was low,
All bloodless lay the untrodden snow,
And dark as winter was the flow
Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight
When the drum beat, at dead of night,
Commanding fires of death to light
The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,
Each horseman drew his battle-blade,
And furious every charger neighed,
To join the dreadful revelry.

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,
It may be the mist - your mither disna wist -
It may be the kirk, it may be the ha',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld
wheels twa.

An' I ken the Black Sea, ayont the rock o' dool,
Like a muckle blot o' ink in a buik fra' the schule,
An' Jock! it gars me min' o' your buikies lang syne,
An' mindin' o' it a' the tears begin to fa',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld
wheels twa.

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
That soar, to earth may fall,

Let once my army-leader Lannes
Waver at yonder wall,” -

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!

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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 -
The cocks an' hens a' they cackle an' they ca',
An' whiddie, whuddie, whaddie, gang the auld
wheels twa.

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.
You know we French stormed Ratisbon:
A mile or so away,
On a little mound, Napoleon
Stood on our storming-day;

A rider, bound on bound Full-galloping; nor bridle drew Until he reached the mound.

Then off there flung in smiling joy,
And held himself erect

By just his horse's mane, a boy:
You hardly could suspect
(So tight he kept his lips compressed,
Scarce any blood came through),
You looked twice ere you saw his breast
Was all but shot in two.

"Well," cried he, "Emperor, by God's grace
We've got you Ratisbon !
The marshal's in the market-place,
And you'll be there anon
To see your flag-bird flap his vans
Where I, to heart's desire,

Perched him!" The chief's eye flashed; his plans
Soared up again like fire.

The chief's eye flashed; but presently
Softened itself, as sheathes

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.

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