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, So glory's thrill is o'er, 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, Its tale of ruin tells. 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. 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, And rouse a fiend from hell. Then mounte! then mounte, brave gallants all, And don your helmes amaine: For Home Deathe's couriers, fame and honor, call and Country 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 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, He never owned the foreign rule, But kept his clan in peace at home, And pointed to his bonnet blue, At length the news ran through the land THE PRINCE had come again! That night the fiery cross was sped O'er mountain and through glen; 'And our old baron rose in might, Like a lion from his den, And rode away across the hills With the valiant Scottish cavaliers, He was the first that bent the knee He gave his soul to God, Like a good old Scottish cavalier, Oh never shall we know again The fair white rose has faded From the garden where it grew, For Home and Country |