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, 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. 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." (86) “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, The traitor's and the spoiler's hand As when our ancient banners flew Come, brothers! let me name a spell Through pulse, and heart, and vein! Rise, hill and glen! rise, crag and wood! Again upon the Garry's banks, On Scottish soil we stand! 11 Again I see the tartans wave, For roaring flood or linn? The soul of Græme is with us still- * Thick blew the smoke across the stream, Yet onward pushed the Cavaliers With thousand armed foes before, And none behind to aid. Once, as they neared the middle stream, 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, Fire on the madmen! break their ranks, Have you seen the tall trees swaying, Even so the Scottish warriors Held their own against the river; For their hearts were big and thrilling And through the ranks it spread— The German heart is stout and true, Scarce swifter shoots the bolt from heaven, And o'er it sword in hand. In vain their leaders forward press- O lonely island of the Rhine, |