He spurred to the foot of the proud Castle rock, And with the gay Gordon he gallantly spoke; 'Let Mons Meg and her marrows speak twa words or three For the love of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee.' The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: There are hills beyond Pentland, and lands beyond Forth, If there's lords in the lowlands, there's chiefs in the North; There are wild Duniewassals three thousand times three Will cry Hoigh! for the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. There's brass on the target of barkened bull-hide; There's steel in the scabbard that dangles beside; The brass shall be burnished, the steel shall flash free At a toss of the bonnet of Bonnie Dundee. Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, He waved his proud hand, and the trumpets were blown, The kettle-drums clashed, and the horsemen rode on, Till on Ravelston's cliffs and on Clermiston's lee Died away the wild war-notes of Bonnie Dundee. Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, CXL WAR-SONG To horse! to horse! the standard flies, From high Dunedin's towers we come, Our casques the leopard's spoils surround, Though tamely crouch to Gallia's frown, Their ravish'd toys though Romans mourn; Oh! had they mark'd the avenging call Shall we, too, bend the stubborn head, Or brook a victor's scorn? No! though destruction o'er the land The sun, that sees our falling day, For gold let Gallia's legions fight, If ever breath of British gale Then farewell home! and farewell friends! To horse! to horse! the sabres gleam; Sir Walter Scott. CXLI ODE ON VISITING FLODDEN GREEN Flodden! on thy bloodstained head But still, thou charnel of the dead, May whitening bones thy surface strew! The rancour of a thousand years Glows in my breast; again I burn To see the banner'd pomp of war return, And mark, beneath the moon, the silver light of spears. Lo! bursting from their common tomb, With awful faces, ghastly red; Of heaving corses, moves each shadowy file, And chants, in solemn strain, the dirge of Flodden Field. What youth, of graceful form and mien, The virgins raise the funeral strain, From Ord's black mountain to the northern main, And mourn the emerald hue which paints the vest of spring! Alas! that Scottish maid should sing The combat where her lover fell! Through ages left the master-hand unblessed, Red Flodden! when thy plaintive strain In early youth rose soft and sweet, And oft in fancied might, I trode Encircled with a sanguine flood; And thought I heard the mingling hum, When, croaking hoarse, the birds of carrion come Afar, on rustling wing, to feast on English blood. Rude Border Chiefs, of mighty name, And iron soul, who sternly tore Till sink the mouldering towers beneath the burdened ground. Shades of the dead! on Alfer's plain Who scorned with backward step to move, But struggling 'mid the hills of slain, Against the Sacred Standard strove ; Amid the lanes of war I trace Each broad claymore and ponderous mace: Where'er the surge of arms is tost, Your glittering spears, in close array, Sweep, like the spider's filmy web, away The flower of Norman pride, and England's victor host. But distant fleets each warrior ghost, Around my solitary head Gleam the blue lightnings of the dead, While murmur low the shadowy band 'Lament no more the warrior's doom! Blood, blood alone, should dew the hero's tomb, Who falls, 'mid circling spears, to save his native land.' John Leyden. |