I heard her sweet voice 'Mid the depth of my slumber, And the sang that she sung Was of sorrow and cumber. Sleep sound, my sweet babe, There is nought to alarm thee; The sons of the valley No power have to harm thee! I'll sing thee to rest In the balloch untrodden, With a coronach sad For the slain of Culloden! "The brave were betray'd, And the tyrant is daring To trample and waste us, Thy mother no voice has, No word, sign, or song, But the lesson of vengeance! "I'll tell thee, my son, How our laurels are withering; I'll bind on thy sword When the clansmen are gathering; I'll bid thee go forth In the cause of true honour, And never return Till thy country hath won her! "Our tower of devotion Is the home of the reaver; The pride of the ocean Is fallen for ever! The pride of the forest, That time could not weaken, Is trod in the dust, And its honours are shaken ! "Rise, spirits of yore, Ever dauntless in danger! For the land that was yours Is the land of the stranger. O come from your caverns, All bloodless and hoary, And these fiends of the valley Shall tremble before ye!" CALEDONIA. Ir is rather curious that the only time I ever heard this song sung, except by one young lady (Miss Forrest), was in the theatre at Lancaster, by the same man who sung Donald M'Donald, a Scotsman, I think, of the name of M'Rae. He sung it to a monotonous tune, and it did not take well. They were both announced for a future night; but I came off and left them. It happened to be the time of the assizes, and in two days, out of near forty offenders, they cast twentyfour for execution, the whole trials taking up little more time than in Scotland would have been taken for the trial of one. I had gone to make the tour of Wales; but it appeared to me that all these fellows were just men that they had brought in to be hanged. So I thought I was long enough there, and the next morning set off for Scotland by the Lakes of Westmoreland and Cumberland; and so ended my tour to Wales. Niel Gow, jun. composed the air to which it is set in the Border Garland, but it is oftener sung to another composed by a young lady. CALEDONIA! thou land of the mountain and rock, Thou land of the torrent, the pine, and the oak, Though bare are thy cliffs, and though barren thy glens, Though bleak thy dun islands appear, Yet kind are the hearts, and undaunted the clans, That roam on these mountains so drear! A foe from abroad, or a tyrant at home, Firm seat of religion, of valour, of truth, The muses have left all the vales of the south, My loved Caledonia, for thee! Sweet land of the bay and the wild-winding deeps, While far in the depth of the blue water sleeps A calm little motionless heaven! Thou land of the valley, the moor, and the hill, And the land of my forefathers' grave! |