« AnteriorContinuar »
Written for the Scottish Gathering, in the Crystal Palace
grounds, Toronto, 14th September, 1859.
My heart leaps up wi' joy to see
Sae mony Scotchmen here,
The laun we lo'e sae dear;
And pu'd the gowden broom,
Wi' gowans a' in bloom.
But oh we ne'er again shall see
Her burnies wimplin by,
Nor laverock in the sky;
lake and stream we hear
Oh when I left the mountains a',
That was a waefu' scene,
The bonnet owre my e'en ;
Afar within the blue,
Was murmuring adieu.
We love auld Scotia's hills and dells,
And yet fu' weel I ken,
O'simple honest men ;
Upon the bluidy sod,
Or change their faith in God.
And should the sleeky Loon o' France,
His faith wi' Britain break, We'll help to put the Lion's foot,
Ance mair upon his neck; A Highland host in Canada
Will don the kilt again,
And rush their native land to free,
Like thunder o'er the main.
And brither Scots owre a' the earth,
Will stretch a haun to save, They're no the chiels wad sit and see
Their mother made a slave ;
Wi' every Scot remains,
Is leaping in our veins.
Then still the rightfu' cause maintain,
And O whate'er ye do,
And to yoursels be true;
O never lag behin',
The credit o' your kin.
OR, THE HIGHLANDERS AT BALAKLAVA.
The Serfs of the Czar know not pity nor mercy,
And many a turban is rolled on the plain,
And Alla il Alla, they'll shout not again.
Sir Colin, Sir Colin! why stand you thus idle,
Yon dark mounted masses shall trample thee o'er, Sir Colin! Sir Colin! thy moments are numbered,
The hills of Glenorchy shall know thee no more.
Why wake not the pibroch thy fathers have sounded,
Which roused up the clansmen in battles of yore, Till downward they swept like the tempests of Avin,
Or demons all dashing with dirk and claymore.
Thy band shall be hacked like the stripes of the tar
tan, M’Donald, M’Dermid, to glory adieu,
Gregalich, Gregalich, the shade of thy hero,
May blush for his sons by his own Avon Dhu.
Hush, hark ! 'tis the pipes playing Hollen M'Garadh,
The spirit of Fingal at last has awoke, But motionless all as the giant Craig Ailsa,
When foam-crested billows rush on to the shock.
The Muscovite horsemen roll nearer and nearer,
Now slacken a moment, now sweep to the shock, One terrible flash, 'tis the lightning of Albin,
One peal and the tartans are hid in the smoke.
Now sons of the mountain the shades of
fathers, Are looking down on you from yon cloud of blue, Be your souls as firm as the rocks of Craigryston,
Your swoop Ise the eagle's of dark Benvenue.
It is not the deer ye have met on the heather,
That is not thine own Corybrechtain's loud roar, Triumphant emerge from that dark cloud of thunder,
Or die and behold the red heather no more.