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When a murmuring sound broke out, and swelled into a

shout,

Among the godless horsemen upon the tyrant's right.

And hark! like the roar of the billows on the shore,

The cry of battle rises along their charging line!— For God! for the Cause! for the Church! for the Laws! For Charles King of England, and Rupert of the Rhine! The furious German comes, with his clarions and his drums, His bravoes of Alsatia and pages of Whitehall;

They are bursting on our flanks:-grasp your pikes ;-close your ranks ;

For Rupert never comes but to conquer or to fall.

They are here;-they rush on! We are broken-we are gone ;

Our left is borne before them like stubble on the blast. O Lord, put forth thy might! O Lord, defend the right! Stand back to back, in God's name, and fight it to the last.

Stout Skippon hath a wound;-the centre hath given ground;

Hark! hark! What means the trampling of horsemen on

our rear

Whose banner do I see, boys?-'Tis he, thank God, 'tis he,

boys!

Bear up another minute. Brave Oliver is here!

Their heads all stooping low, their points all in a row,
Like a whirlwind on the trees, like a deluge on the dykes,
Our cuirassiers have burst on the ranks of the Accurst,
And at a shock have scattered the forest of his pikes.

Fast, fast, the gallants ride, in some safe nook to hide

Their coward heads, predestined to rot on Temple-Bar. And he he turns, he flies!-shame to those cruel eyes That bore to look on torture, and dare not look on war.

Ho! comrades, scour the plain; and ere ye strip the slain, First give another stab to make your guest secure;

Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces and

lockets,

The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

Fools! your doublets shone with gold, and your hearts were gay and bold,

When ye kissed your lily hands to your lemans1 to-day; And to-morrow shall the fox, from her chambers in the rocks,

Lead forth her tawny cubs to howl above the prey.

Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and hell and fate,

And the fingers that once were so busy with your

blades;

Your perfumed satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and your spades?

Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the

crown,

With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the

Pope:

There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's

Stalls;

The Jesuit smites his bosom; the Bishop rends his

cope.

And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's

sword;

And the kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they hear

What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses2 and the word.

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XXIII.-THE ISLAND OF THE SCOTS.

(AYTOUN.)

In 1697, the Marquis de Sell was encamped on the Rhine with the French army, to watch the movements of General Stirk and the Germans, who occupied the opposite bank. The Germans had taken possession of an island in the river, from which the French were anxious to drive them; but no boats could be found to carry troops across the stream. At this crisis a corps formed of Scottish officers, who had fought under Viscount Dundee, and who had followed the exiled James to France, volunteered to wade the river and dispossess the Germans. Being joined by two other Scottish companies, they accomplished the task in gallant style, though opposed by far superior numbers. From this event the island was called "The Island of the Scots."

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“THE stream,” he said, “is broad and deep,

And stubborn is the foe;

Yon island-strength is guarded well

Say, brothers, will ye go?

From home and kin for many a year

Our steps have wandered wide,
And never may our bones be laid
Our fathers' graves beside.
No sisters have we to lament,
No wives to wail our fall;

The traitor's and the spoiler's hand
Has reft our hearths of all.
But we have hearts, and we have arms,
As strong to will and dare,

As when our ancient banners flew
Within the northern air.

Come, brothers! let me name a spell
Shall rouse your souls again,
And send the old blood bounding free

Through pulse, and heart, and vein!
Call back the days of bygone years—
Be young and strong once more;
Think yonder stream, so stark and red,
Is one we've crossed before.

Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood!
Rise up on either hand!-

Again upon the Garry's banks,

On Scottish soil we stand!

11

Again I see the tartans wave,
Again the trumpets ring;
Again I hear our leader's call-
'Upon them, for the King!'
Stayed we behind, that glorious day,

For roaring flood or linn?

The soul of Græme is with us still-
Now, brothers! will ye in?"

*

Thick blew the smoke across the stream,
And faster flashed the flame:
The water plashed in hissing jets,
As ball and bullet came.

Yet onward pushed the Cavaliers
All stern and undismayed,

With thousand armed foes before,

And none behind to aid.

Once, as they neared the middle stream,
So strong the torrent swept,
That scarce that long and living wall

Their dangerous footing kept.

Then rose a warning cry behind,

A joyous shout before:

"The current's strong the way is long—

They'll never reach the shore!

See! see! they stagger in the midst,
They waver in their line!

Fire on the madmen! break their ranks,
And whelm them in the Rhine!"

Have you seen the tall trees swaying,
When the blast is piping shrill,
And the whirlwind reels in fury
Down the gorges of the hill?
How they toss their mighty branches,
Struggling with the tempest's shock;
How they keep their place of vantage,
Cleaving firmly to the rock?

Even so the Scottish warriors

Held their own against the river;
Though the water flashed around them,
Not an eye was seen to quiver;
Though the shot flew sharp and deadly,
Not a man relaxed his hold:

For their hearts were big and thrilling
With the mighty thoughts of old.
One word was spoke among them,

And through the ranks it spread—
"Remember our dead Claverhouse!"
Was all the Captain said.
Then sternly bending forward
They struggled on a while,
Until they cleared the heavy stream,
Then rushed towards the isle.

The German heart is stout and true,
The German arm is strong;
The German foot goes seldom back
Where armèd foemen throng:
But never had they faced in field
So stern a charge before,
And never had they felt the sweep
Of Scotland's broad claymore.
Not fiercer pours the avalanche
Adown the steep incline,
That rises o'er the parent-springs
Of rough and rapid Rhine-

Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven,
Than came the Scottish band
Right up against the guarded trench,

And o'er it sword in hand.

In vain their leaders forward press-
They meet the deadly brand!

O lonely island of the Rhine,
Where seed was never sown,
What harvest lay upon thy sands,
By those strong reapers thrown?

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