LINES WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY IN LONDON, WHEN MET TO COMME MORATE THE 21ST OF MARCH, THE DAY OF VICTORY IN EGYPT. PLEDGE to the much-loved land that gave us birth! Invincible romantic Scotia's shore! Pledge to the memory of her parted worth! And be it deem'd not wrong that name to give, In festive hours, which prompts the patriot's sigh! Who would not envy such as Moore to live? And died he not as heroes wish to die? Yes, though too soon attaining glory's goal, To us his bright career too short was given; Yet in a mighty cause his phoenix soul Rose on the flames of victory to Heaven! How oft (if beats in subjugated Spain One patriot heart) in secret shall it mourn For him!- How oft on far Corunna's plain Peace to the mighty dead! our bosom thanks In sprightlier strains the living may inspire! Joy to the chiefs that lead old Scotia's ranks, Of Roman garb and more than Roman fire! Triumphant be the thistle still unfurl'd, Dear symbol wild! on freedom's hills it grows, Where Fingal stemm'd the tyrants of the world, And Roman eagles found unconquer'd foes. Joy to the band this day on Egypt's coast, Joy for the day on red Vimeira's strand, When bayonet to bayonet opposed, First of Britannia's host her Highland band Gave but the death-shot once, and foremost closed! Is there a son of generous England here Το Or fervid Erin ?-he with us shall join, pray that in eternal union dear, The rose, the shamrock, and the thistle twine! Types of a race who shall th' invader scorn, As rocks resist the billows round their shore ; Types of a race who shall to time unborn Their Country leave unconquer'd as of yore! a The 42d regiment. To honour, ay embrace your martyr'd lot, Cursing the Bigot's and the Bourbon's chain, And looking on your graves, though trophied not, As holier, hallow'd ground than priests could make the spot! What though your cause be baffled freemen cast In dungeons-dragg'd to death, or forced to flee; Hope is not wither'd in affliction's blast- The patriot's blood's the seed of Freedom's tree; And short your orgies of revenge shall be, Cowl'd Demons of the Inquisitorial cell! Earth shudders at your victory,- for ye Are worse than common fiends from Heaven that fell, The baser, ranker sprung, Autochthones of Hell! Go to your bloody rites again-bring back The hall of horrors and the assessor's pen, Recording answers shriek'd upon the rack; Smile o'er the gaspings of spine-broken men ; Preach, perpetrate damnation in your den; Then let your altars, ye blasphemers! peal With thanks to Heaven, that let you loose again, To practise deeds with torturing fire and steel. No eye may search no tongue may challenge or reveal! |