« AnteriorContinuar »
But redder yet that light shall glow,
'Tis morn; but scarce yon level sun Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, Where furious Frank and fiery Hun
Shout in their sulphurous canopy.
The combat deepens. On ye brave,
Few, few shall part where many meet!
MY NATIVE LAND.
My native land,-land of my heart!
On thy wild shores my heart will dwell; For there, in youth's bright dawn, I wove The sweet-the glittering dream of love.
My native land,-my happy home!
But far behind is love's deep sigh;
My native land, my earthly heaven!
My heart yet lingers on thy shore; And though misfortune's blast be driven,
And ruin's wild o'erwhelming roar On this lone heart may lower a while, A thought of thee will light Hope's smile.
My native land,-proud freedom's land!
My native land,-land of the brave!
Where Bruce where Wallace fought and bled!. Who fearless stemmed the
gory wave Of tyranny,-who dauntless led Proud freedom's ranks, till, blazing high O'er Scotia's hills, gleamed Victory.
'Twas on thy shores bright Fancy's fire
To emulate their fame who sleep
In victory's shroud,-whose red right hand
The glow of heaven doth brighter gleam,
And lovelier on my soul doth beam
That sun which gilds my native land!
E'en Hope was gone when thy loved shore
Receded from my eager view:
Her torch she dashed amid the roar
Of Ocean's waves! Her last adieu Yet in my ear doth lingering dwell! My native land, farewell!-farewell!
Lochiel! Lochiel! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scattered in fight; They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe, to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 'Tis thine, oh Glenullin! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning: no rider is there; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair.
Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led!
Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. O
Oh, man! before thy feverish brain
Like colours on the evening main,
First, bends the burning heart of youth
Deems like its own a 'stranger's truth,
The hours too swift roll on;