He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; 'Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three

For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.'

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes:
'Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose !
Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me,
Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth,

If there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the

North;

There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times

three

Will cry Hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks,
Ere I own a usurper, I'll couch with the fox;
And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee,
You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!'

He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown,

The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee

Died

away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can,
Come saddle the horses, and call up the men,
Come open the gates, and let me gae free,
For it's up with the bonnets of Bonnie Dundee !
Sir Walter Scott.

CXL

WAR-SONG

To horse! to horse! the standard flies,
The bugles sound the call;
The Gallic navy stems the seas,
The voice of battle's on the breeze,
Arouse ye, one and all!

From high Dunedin's towers we come,
A band of brothers true;

Our casques the leopard's spoils surround,
With Scotland's hardy thistle crown'd;
We boast the red and blue.

Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown,
Dull Holland's tardy train;

Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn;
Though gallant Switzers vainly spurn;
And, foaming, gnaw the chain;

Oh! had they mark'd the avenging call
Their brethren's murder gave,
Disunion ne'er their ranks had mown,
Nor patriot valour desperate grown,
Sought freedom in the grave!

Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head,
In Freedom's temple born,
Dress our pale cheek in timid smile,
To hail a master in our isle,

Or brook a victor's scorn?

No! though destruction o'er the land
Come pouring as a flood,

The sun, that sees our falling day,
Shall mark our sabres' deadly sway,
And set that night in blood.

For gold let Gallia's legions fight,
Or plunder's bloody gain;
Unbribed, unbought, our swords we draw,
To guard our king, to fence our law,
Nor shall their edge be vain.

If ever breath of British gale
Shall fan the tricolor,
Or footstep of invader rude,
With rapine foul, and red with blood,
Pollute our happy shore-

Then farewell home! and farewell friends!
Adieu each tender tie!
Resolved, we mingle in the tide,
Where charging squadrons furious ride,
To conquer or to die.

To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam;
High sounds our bugle call;
Combined by honour's sacred tie,
Our word is Laws and Liberty!
March forward, one and all!

Sir Walter Scott.

CXLI

ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN

GREEN Flodden! on thy bloodstained head
Descend no rain or vernal dew;

But still, thou charnel of the dead,

May whitening bones thy surface strew!
Soon as I tread thy rush-clad vale,
Wild fancy feels the clasping mail;

The rancour of a thousand years

Glows in my breast; again I burn

To see the banner'd pomp of war return,

And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of

spears.

Lo! bursting from their common tomb,
The spirits of the ancient dead
Dimly streak the parted gloom

With awful faces, ghastly red;
As once, around their martial king,
They closed the death-devoted ring,
With dauntless hearts, unknown to yield;
In slow procession round the pile

Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chants, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden Field.

What youth, of graceful form and mien,
Foremost leads the spectred brave,
While o'er his mantle's folds of green
His amber locks redundant wave?
When slow returns the fated day,
That viewed their chieftain's long array,
Wild to the harp's deep plaintive string,

The virgins raise the funeral strain,

From Ord's black mountain to the northern main, And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring!

Alas! that Scottish maid should sing

The combat where her lover fell!
That Scottish bard should wake the string,
The triumph of our foes to tell!
Yet Teviot's sons, with high disdain,
Have kindled at the thrilling strain,
That mourn'd their martial fathers' bier;
And at the sacred font, the priest

Through ages left the master-hand unblessed,
To urge, with keener aim, the blood-encrusted spear.

Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain

In early youth rose soft and sweet,
My life-blood, through each throbbing vein,
With wild tumultuous passion beat;

And oft in fancied might, I trode
The spear-strewn path to Fame's abode,

Encircled with a sanguine flood;

And thought I heard the mingling hum,

When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood.

Rude Border Chiefs, of mighty name,

And iron soul, who sternly tore
The blossoms from the tree of fame,
And purpled deep their tints with gore,
Rush from brown ruins, scarr'd with age,
That frown o'er haunted Hermitage;
Where, long by spells mysterious bound,
They pace their round, with lifeless smile,
And shake, with restless foot, the guilty pile,

Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground.

Shades of the dead! on Alfer's plain

Who scorned with backward step to move,

But struggling 'mid the hills of slain,

Against the Sacred Standard strove ;

Amid the lanes of war I trace

Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: Where'er the surge of arms is tost,

Your glittering spears, in close array,

Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away

The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor host.

But distant fleets each warrior ghost,
With surly sounds that murmur far;
Such sounds were heard when Syria's host
Roll'd from the walls of proud Samàr.

Around my solitary head

Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead,

While murmur low the shadowy band

'Lament no more the warrior's doom!

Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb, Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native

land.'

John Leyden.