The pond'rous wall and massy bar,
Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock;
Have oft withstood assailing war,
And oft repelled the invader's shock.
VI.
With awe-struck thought and pitying tears,
I view that noble, stately dome,
Where Scotia's kings of other years,
Fam'd heroes, had their royal home:
Alas! how chang'd the time to come;
Their royal name low in the dust!
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam!
Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just!
VII
Wild beats my heart to trace your steps,
Whose ancestors, in days of yore,
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin'd gaps,
Old Scotia's bloody lion bore;
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore,
Haply my sires have left their shed, And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, Bold following where your fathers led! VIII.
Edina! Scotia's darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and tow'rs,
Where once beneath a monarch's feet
Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs!
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs,
As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd,
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours,
I shelter in thy honour'd shade.
As I stood by yon roofless tower,
Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air Where the howlet mourns in her ivy bower, And tells the midnight moon her care :
The winds were laid, the air was still,
The stars they shot alang the sky;
The fox was howling on the hill,
And the distant-echoing glens reply.
The stream, adown its hazelly path,
Was rushing by the ruin'd wa's,
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith,
Whase distant roaring swells and fa's.
The cauld blue north was streaming forth
Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din ;
Athort the lift they start and shift,
Like Fortune's favours, tint as win.
By heedless chance I turn'd my eyes,
And by the moon-beam, shook, to see
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise,
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be.
Had I statue been o' stane,
His darin look had daunted me:
And on his bonnet grav'd was plain,
The sacred posy-Libertie!
And frae his harp sic strains did flow,
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to hear;
But oh it was a tale of wo,
As ever met a Briton's ear!
He sang wi' joy his former day,
He, weeping, wail'd his latter times;
But what he said it was nae play,
I winna ventur't in my rhymes.*
BANNOCK BURN.
ROBERT BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY
SCOTś, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to glorious victorie.
Now's the day, and now's the hour;
See the front o' battle lower;
See approach proud Edward's power-
Edward chains! and slaverie!
Wha will be a traitor knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave ?
Traitor! coward! turn and flee!
Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'?
Caledonian! on wi' me!
By oppression's woes and pains!
By your sons in servile chains!
We will drain our dearest veins,
But they shall be-shall be free!
Lay the proud usurpers low!
Tyrants fall in every foe!
Liberty's in every blow!
Forward! let us do, or die!
The scenery so finely described in this poem, is taken from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing, by night, on the banks of the Cluden, near the ruins of Lincluden-abbey, of which some account is given in Pennant's Tour and Grose's Antiquities. It is to be regretted that he suppressed the song of Libertie. From the resources of his genius, and the grandeur and solemnity of the preparation, something might have been anticipated, equal, if not superior, to the Address of Bruce to his Army, to the Song of Death, or to the fervid and noble description of the Dying Soldier in the field of battle.
SCENE-A field of battle. Time of the day-Evening.-Th wounded and dying of the victorious army are suppose to join in the following Song.
FAREWELL, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye
Now gay with the bright setting sun;
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear tender ties,
Our race of existence is run!
Thou grim king of terrors, thou life's gloomy foe,
Go, frighten the coward and slave:
Go, teach them to tremble, fell tyrant! but know,
No terrors hast thou to the brave!
Thou strik'st the dull peasant-he sinks in the dark,
Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name:
Thou strik'st the young hero-a glorious mark!
He falls in the blaze of his fame!
In the field of proud honour-our swords in our hands,
Our King and our country to save-
While Victory shines on life's last ebbing sands,
O! who would not rest with the brave!
By yon castle wa' at the close of the day,
I heard a man sing, though his head it was gray;
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes liame.
The church is in ruins, the state is in jars;
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars;
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword,
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd,
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithfu' auld dame-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
Now life is a burden that bows me down,
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown;
But till my last moment my words are the same-
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame.
THE lovely lass o' Inverness,
Nae joy nor pleasure can she see;
For e'en and morn she cries, alas!
And aye the saut tear blin's her e'e!
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day,
A waefu' day it was to me;
For there I lost my father dear,
My father dear, and brethren three.
Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay,
Their graves are growing green to see,
And by them lies the dearest lad
That ever blest a woman's e'e?
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord,
A bluidy man I trow thou be
For monie a heart thou hast made sair,
That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee.
Tune-"Logan Water."
O LOGAN, Sweetly didst thou glide,
That day I was my Willie's bride;
And years sinsyne have o'er us run,
Like Logan to the simmer sun.
But now thy flow'ry banks appear,
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear;
While my dear lad maun face his faes,
Far, far frae me and Logan braes.
Again the merry month o' May
Has made our hills and valleys gay:
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers,
The bees hum round the breathing flowers: Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye,
And evening's tears are tears of joy ;
My soul, delightless, a' surveys,
While Willie's far frae Logan braes.
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