For Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, Home The hills of the Highlands forever I love. and Country Farewell to the mountains high covered with snow; Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; The Minstrel-Boy The Minstrel-boy to the war is gone, And his wild harp slung behind him."Land of song!" said the warrior-bard, 66 Though all the world betrays thee, The Minstrel fell!-but the foeman's chain And said, "No chains shall sully thee, For Home and Thy songs were made for the pure and free, Country They shall never sound in slavery!" THOMAS MOORE. The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, And hearts, that once beat high for praise, No more to chiefs and ladies bright The harp of Tara swells: The chord alone, that breaks at night, Thus Freedom now so seldom wakes, The only throb she gives Is when some heart indignant breaks, To show that still she lives. THOMAS Moore. For Home and Country 6 Fife and Drum The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger And mortal alarms. The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum, Cries, "Hark! the foes come; Charge, charge! 'tis too late to retreat." JOHN DRYDEN. From "The Ode on St. Cecilia's Day." The Cavalier's Song A steed! a steed of matchlesse speed, A sword of metal keene! All else to noble heartes is drosse, All else on earth is meane. The neighyinge of the war-horse prowde, The clangor of the trumpet lowde, Be soundes from heaven that come; May tole from heaven an angel bright, Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call Us to the field againe. No shrewish teares shall fill our eye When the sword-hilt's in our hand Heart-whole we'll part, and no whit sighe For the fayrest of the land; Let piping swaine, and craven wight, Thus weepe and puling crye; Our business is like men to fight, And hero-like to die! WILLIAM MOTHERWELL. The Old Scottish Cavalier Come listen to another song, Should make your heart beat high, Bring crimson to your forehead, And the luster to your eye;— It is a song of olden time, Of days long since gone by, And of a baron stout and bold As e'er wore sword on thigh! Like a brave old Scottish cavalier, All of the olden time! He kept his castle in the north, Hard by the thundering Spey; For Home and Country For Home and Country And a thousand vassals dwelt around, All of his kindred they. And not a man of all that clan Had ever ceased to pray For the Royal race they loved so well, From the steadfast Scottish cavaliers His father drew the righteous sword And chiefs of ancient names, And died at Killiecrankie Pass He never owned the foreign rule, But kept his clan in peace at home, And pointed to his bonnet blue, That bore the white cockade: |