Her's their bold port, and her's their martial frown,

And her's their scorn of death in freedom's cause,

Their eyes of azure, and their locks of brown,

And the blunt speech that bursts without a pause,

And freeborn thoughts, which league the Soldier with

the Laws.

LIX.

And O! loved warriors of the Minstrel's land!

Yonder

your bonnets nod, your tartans wave!

The rugged form

may mark the mountain band,

And harsher features, and a mien more grave;

But ne'er in battle-field throbb'd heart so brave

As that which beats beneath the Scottish plaid,

And when the pibroch bids the battle rave,

And level for the charge your arms are laid,

Where lives the desperate foe that for such onset

staid!

LX.

Hark! from yon stately ranks what laughter rings,

Mingling wild mirth with war's stern minstrelsy, His jest while each blithe comrade round him flings, And moves to death with military glee :

Boast, Erin, boast them! tameless, frank, and free,

In kindness warm, and fierce in danger known, Rough Nature's children, humorous as she:

And HE, yon Chieftain-strike the proudest tone Of thy bold harp, green Isle !-the Hero is thine

own.

LXI.

Now on the scene Vimeira should be shown,

On Talavera's fight should Roderick gaze,

And hear Corunna wail her battle won,

And see Busaco's crest with light'ning blaze :

But shall fond fable mix with heroes' praise?

Hath Fiction's stage for Truth's long triumphs

room?

And dare her wild flowers mingle with the bays,

That claim a long eternity to bloom

Around the warrior's crest, and o'er the warrior's

tomb!

LXII.

Or may I give adventurous Fancy scope,

And stretch a bold hand to the awful veil

That hides futurity from anxious hope,

Bidding beyond it scenes of glory hail,

And painting Europe rousing at the tale

Of Spain's invaders from her confines hurl'd,

While kindling nations buckle on their mail,

And Fame, with clarion-blast and wings unfurl'd,

To freedom and revenge awakes an injured World!

LXIII.

O vain, though anxious, is the glance I cast,

Since Fate has mark'd futurity her own: Yet fate resigns to worth the glorious past,

The deeds recorded, and the laurels won. Then, though the Vault of Destiny be gone,

King, Prelate, all the phantasms of my brain, Melted away like mist-wreaths in the sun,

Yet grant for faith, for valour, and for Spain,

One note of pride and fire, a Patriot's parting strain!