Imágenes de páginas
[graphic][merged small][merged small]

MARCH, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale!

Why, my lads, dinna ye march forward in order?
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale ;

All the blue bonnets are over the Border.
Many a banner spread flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story;

Mount and make ready, then, sons of the mountain glen
Fight for your queen and the old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow.
Trumpets are sounding, war-steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms and march in good order;
England shall many a day tell of the bloody fray,

When the blue bonnets came over the Border.

The above spirited song, by Sir Walter Scott, was founded upon "General Leslie's march to Longmarston Moor," which appeared in Allan Ramsay's "Tea-Table Mircellany," where it is marked as ancient, and as one of which Ramsay neither knew the age nor the author. The old song is of little or no merit, but is inserted here as

a curiosity, and as showing out of what rude materials Scott constructed the modern song, which has since become so celebrated.


March, march, why the deil dinna ye march?
Stand to your arms, my lads; fight in good order.
Front about, ye musketeers all,

Till ye come to the English Border.

Stand till't and fight like men,

True gospel to maintain;

The Parliament's blythe to see us a-coming.

When to the kirk we come,

We'll purge it ilka room

Frae Popish relics and a' sic innovation,

That a' the world may see

There's nane in the right but we

Of the auld Scottish nation.

Jenny shall wear the hood,

Jockie the sark of God;

And the kist fu' o' whistles that maks sic a cleiro,

Our pipers braw

Shall hae them a'.

Whate'er come on it,

Busk up your plaids, my lads,

Cock up your bonnets.


MRS. GRANT of Laggan; born 1755, died 1838. Air-"The blue-bells of Scotland."

Oн, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone? Oh, where, tell me where is your Highland laddie gone? gone with streaming banners where noble deeds are done, my sad heart will tremble till he come safely home.



Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
Oh, where, tell me where did your Highland laddie stay?
He dwelt beneath the holly-trees beside the rapid Spey,
And many a blessing follow'd him the day he went away.

Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear?
Oh, what, tell me what does your Highland laddie wear?
A bonnet with a lofty plume, the gallant badge of war,
And a plaid across the manly breast that yet shall wear a star.

Suppose, ah, suppose, that some cruel, cruel wound

Should pierce your Highland laddie, and all your hopes confound. The pipe would play a cheering march, the banners round him fly, The spirit of a Highland chief would lighten in his eye.

But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds,
But I will hope to see him yet in Scotland's bonnie bounds.
His native land of liberty shall nurse his glorious wounds,
While wide through all our Highland hills his warlike name re-

This song, founded on a more ancient one with the same title, was written for the collection of Mr. George Thomson after the death of Burns. The subject was the departure for the Continent, with his regiment, of the Marquis of Huntly in 1799.


WILLIAM GLEN. Air-"Whistle o'er the lave o't."

SING, a' ye bards, wi' loud acclaim,
High glory gi'e to gallant Grahame,
Heap laurels on our marshal's fame,
Wha conquer'd at Vittoria.
Triumphant freedom smiled on Spain,
An' raised her stately form again,
Whan the British Lion shook his mane
On the mountains o' Vittoria.

Let blust'rin' Suchet crously crack,
Let Joseph rin the coward's track,
And Jourdan wish his baton back
He left upon Vittoria ;

If e'er they meet their worthy king,
Let them dance roun' him in a ring,
An' some Scottish piper play the spring
He blew them at Vittoria.

Gi'e truth an' honour to the Dane,
Gi'e German's monarch heart and brain;

But aye in sic a cause as Spain,

Gi'e Britons a Vittoria.

The English Rose was ne'er sae red,
The Shamrock waved whare glory led,
And the Scottish Thistle raised its head
An' smiled upon Vittoria.

Loud was the battle's stormy swell,
Whare thousands fought and mony fell;
But the Glasgow heroes bore the bell
At the battle of Vittoria.

The Paris maids may ban them a’,
Their lads are maistly wede awa,
An' cauld an' pale as wreaths o' snaw
They lie upon Vittoria.

Wi' quakin' heart and tremblin' knees,
The Eagle standard-bearer flees,

While the "meteor-flag" floats to the breeze,
An' wantons on Vittoria.
Britannia's glory there was shown
By the undaunted Wellington,
An' the tyrant trembled on his throne,
Whan hearin' o' Vittoria.

Peace to the spirits o' the brave,
Let a' their trophies for them wave,
An' green be our Cadogan's grave
Upon thy field, Vittoria !

There let eternal laurels bloom,
While maidens mourn his early doom,
An' deck his lowly honour'd tomb
Wi' roses on Vittoria.

Ye Caledonian war-pipes, play;
Barossa heard your Highlan' lay,
An' the gallant Scot show'd there that day
A prelude to Vittoria.

Shout to the heroes-swell ilk voice
To them wha made poor Spain rejoice;
Shout Wellington an' Lynedoch, boys,
Barossa an' Vittoria !

[blocks in formation]

Our leader fell,—so died the brave,
We'll never see his like again;

I was denied a sodger's grave,

For I am safe come back again.

It's true they've ta’en frae me a leg ;

But wha for that would mak' a maen ? Cheer up your heart, my bounie Meg,

I've brought a leal heart back again.

And though the wound it carried smart, And twitch'd me sair wi' rackin' pain, Wi' honour's scars I wadna part,

Nor yet my leg take back again.

Cheer up your heart since I am here,

Wi' smiles your cheek gae deck again;

Cheer up, my lass, an' dinna fear,

Your Donald's safe come back again. Though mony a rattlin' blast has blawn, There's plenty in the stack again;

My wee lock siller's a' your ain

Now sin' I'm safe come back again.

Now may the wars for ever cease,

Your heart nae mair to rack again ; And may we live in love and peace, Sin' Donald's safe come back again. But should my country call me forth, Her freedom to protect again, Claymore in hand I'd leave the North,

If I should ne'er come back again.

« AnteriorContinuar »