Lyra Heroica: A Book of Verse for Boys

by Unknown

THE LAST STAND

By this, though deep the evening fell, Still rose the battle's deadly swell, For still the Scots, around their King, Unbroken, fought in desperate ring. Where's now their victor vaward wing, Where Huntly, and where Home? O for a blast of that dread horn, On Fontarabian echoes borne, That to King Charles did come, When Roland brave, and Olivier, And every paladin and peer, On Roncesvalles died! Such blast might warn them, not in vain, To quit the plunder of the slain, And turn the doubtful day again, While yet on Flodden side Afar the Royal Standard flies, And round it toils, and bleeds, and dies Our Caledonian pride!

But as they left the dark'ning heath, More desperate grew the strife of death. The English shafts in volleys hailed, In headlong charge their horse assailed; Front, flank, and rear, the squadrons sweep To break the Scottish circle deep That fought around their King. But yet, though thick the shafts as snow, Though charging knights like whirlwinds go, Though bill-men ply the ghastly blow, Unbroken was the ring; The stubborn spear-men still made good Their dark impenetrable wood, Each stepping where his comrade stood, The instant that he fell. No thought was there of dastard flight; Linked in the serried phalanx tight, Groom fought like noble, squire like knight, As fearlessly and well; Till utter darkness closed her wing O'er their thin host and wounded King. Then skilful Surrey's sage commands Led back from strife his shattered bands; And from the charge they drew, As mountain waves from wasted lands Sweep back to ocean blue. Then did their loss his foemen know; Their King, their Lords, their mightiest low, They melted from the field, as snow, When streams are swoln and south winds blow, Dissolves in silent dew. Tweed's echoes heard the ceaseless plash, While many a broken band Disordered through her currents dash, To gain the Scottish land; To town and tower, to town and dale, To tell red Flodden's dismal tale, And raise the universal wail. Tradition, legend, tune, and song Shall many an age that wail prolong: Still from the sire the son shall hear Of the stern strife and carnage drear Of Flodden's fatal field, Where shivered was fair Scotland's spear, And broken was her shield!

Scott.

[LVI]
THE CHASE

The stag at eve had drunk his fill, Where danced the moon on Monan's rill, And deep his midnight lair had made In lone Glenartney's hazel shade; But, when the sun his beacon red Had kindled on Benvoirlich's head, The deep-mouthed bloodhound's heavy bay Resounded up the rocky way, And faint from farther distance borne Were heard the clanging hoof and horn.

As Chief, who hears his warder call, ‘To arms! the foemen storm the wall,’ The antlered monarch of the waste Sprang from his heathery couch in haste. But, ere his fleet career he took, The dew-drops from his flanks he shook; Like crested leader proud and high, Tossed his beamed frontlet to the sky; A moment gazed adown the dale, A moment snuffed the tainted gale, A moment listened to the cry That thickened as the chase drew nigh; Then, as the headmost foes appeared, With one brave bound the copse he cleared, And, stretching forward free and far, Sought the wild heaths of Uam-Var.

Yelled on the view the opening pack; Rock, glen, and cavern paid them back: To many a mingled sound at once The awakened mountain gave response. A hundred dogs bayed deep and strong, Clattered a hundred steeds along, Their peal the merry horns rang out, A hundred voices joined the shout; With hark and whoop and wild halloo No rest Benvoirlich's echoes knew. Far from the tumult fled the roe, Close in her covert cowered the doe, The falcon from her cairn on high Cast on the rout a wondering eye, Till far beyond her piercing ken The hurricane had swept the glen. Faint and more faint, its failing din Returned from cavern, cliff, and linn, And silence settled wide and still On the lone wood and mighty hill.

Less loud the sounds of silvan war Disturbed the heights of Uam-Var, And roused the cavern where, 'tis told, A giant made his den of old; For ere that steep ascent was won, High in his pathway hung the sun, And many a gallant, stayed perforce, Was fain to breathe his faltering horse, And of the trackers of the deer Scarce half the lessening pack was near; So shrewdly on the mountain-side Had the bold burst their mettle tried.

The noble stag was pausing now Upon the mountain's southern brow, Where broad extended, far beneath, The varied realms of fair Menteith. With anxious eye he wandered o'er Mountain and meadow, moss and moor, And pondered refuge from his toil By far Lochard or Aberfoyle. But nearer was the copsewood grey That waved and wept on Loch-Achray, And mingled with the pine-trees blue On the bold cliffs of Benvenue. Fresh vigour with the hope returned, With flying foot the heath he spurned, Held westward with unwearied race, And left behind the panting chase.

'Twere long to tell what steeds gave o'er, As swept the hunt through Cambus-more; What reins were tightened in despair, When rose Benledi's ridge in air; Who flagged upon Bochastle's heath, Who shunned to stem the flooded Teith, For twice that day from shore to shore The gallant stag swam stoutly o'er. Few were the stragglers, following far, That reached the lake of Vennachar; And when the Brigg of Turk was won, The headmost horseman rode alone.

Alone, but with unbated zeal, That horseman plied the scourge and steel; For jaded now and spent with toil, Embossed with foam and dark with soil, While every gasp with sobs he drew, The labouring stag strained full in view. Two dogs of black Saint Hubert's breed, Unmatched for courage, breath, and speed, Fast on his flying traces came And all but won that desperate game; For scarce a spear's length from his haunch Vindictive toiled the bloodhounds staunch; Nor nearer might the dogs attain, Nor farther might the quarry strain. Thus up the margin of the lake, Between the precipice and brake, O'er stock and rock their race they take.

The Hunter marked that mountain high, The lone lake's western boundary, And deemed the stag must turn to bay Where that huge rampart barred the way; Already glorying in the prize, Measured his antlers with his eyes; For the death-wound and death-halloo Mustered his breath, his whinyard drew; But thundering as he came prepared, With ready arm and weapon bared, The wily quarry shunned the shock, And turned him from the opposing rock; Then, dashing down a darksome glen, Soon lost to hound and hunter's ken, In the deep Trosach's wildest nook His solitary refuge took. There, while close couched, the thicket shed Cold dews and wild-flowers on his head, He heard the baffled dogs in vain Rave through the hollow pass amain, Chiding the rocks that yelled again.

Close on the hounds the hunter came, To cheer them on the vanished game; But, stumbling in the rugged dell, The gallant horse exhausted fell. The impatient rider strove in vain To rouse him with the spur and rein, For the good steed, his labours o'er, Stretched his stiff limbs, to rise no more; Then touched with pity and remorse He sorrowed o'er the expiring horse. ‘I little thought, when first thy rein I slacked upon the banks of Seine, That Highland eagle e'er should feed On thy fleet limbs, my matchless steed! Woe worth the chase, woe worth the day, That costs thy life, my gallant grey!’

Then through the dell his horn resounds, From vain pursuit to call the hounds. Back limped with slow and crippled pace The sulky leaders of the chase; Close to their master's side they pressed, With drooping tail and humbled crest; But still the dingle's hollow throat Prolonged the swelling bugle-note. The owlets started from their dream, The eagles answered with their scream, Round and around the sounds were cast, Till echoes seemed an answering blast; And on the hunter hied his way, To join some comrades of the day.

Scott.

[LVII]
THE OUTLAW

O, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen. And as I rode by Dalton-hall, Beneath the turrets high, A Maiden on the castle wall Was singing merrily:

‘O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.’

‘If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with me, To leave both tower and town, Thou first must guess what life lead we That dwell by dale and down. And if thou canst that riddle read, As read full well you may, Then to the greenwood shalt thou speed, As blythe as Queen of May.’

Yet sang she, ‘Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are green; I'd rather rove with Edmund there Than reign our English queen.

I read you, by your bugle-horn And by your palfrey good, I read you for a Ranger sworn To keep the king's greenwood.’ ‘A Ranger, lady, winds his horn, And 'tis at peep of light; His blast is heard at merry morn, And mine at dead of night.’

Yet sang she ‘Brignall banks are fair, And Greta woods are gay; I would I were with Edmund there, To reign his Queen of May!

With burnished brand and musketoon So gallantly you come, I read you for a bold Dragoon That lists the tuck of drum.’ ‘I list no more the tuck of drum, No more the trumpet hear; But when the beetle sounds his hum, My comrades take the spear.

And O! though Brignall banks be fair, And Greta woods be gay, Yet mickle must the maiden dare Would reign my Queen of May!

Maiden! a nameless life I lead, A nameless death I'll die! The fiend, whose lantern lights the mead, Were better mate than I! And when I'm with my comrades met, Beneath the Greenwood bough, What once we were we all forget, Nor think what we are now.

Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer queen.’

Scott.

[LVIII]
PIBROCH

Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Pibroch of Donuil, Wake thy wild voice anew, Summon Clan-Conuil. Come away, come away, Hark to the summons! Come in your war array, Gentles and commons.

Come from deep glen and From mountains so rocky, The war-pipe and pennon Are at Inverlocky. Come every hill-plaid and True heart that wears one, Come every steel blade and Strong hand that bears one.

Leave untended the herd, The flock without shelter; Leave the corpse uninterred, The bride at the altar; Leave the deer, leave the steer, Leave nets and barges: Come with your fighting gear, Broadswords and targes.

Come as the winds come when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come when Navies are stranded: Faster come, faster come, Faster and faster, Chief, vassal, page and groom, Tenant and master.

Fast they come, fast they come; See how they gather! Wide waves the eagle plume Blended with heather. Cast your plaids, draw your blades, Forward each man set! Pibroch of Donuil Dhu, Knell for the onset!

Scott.

[LIX]
THE OMNIPOTENT

‘Why sitt'st thou by that ruined hall, Thou agèd carle so stern and grey? Dost thou its former pride recall, Or ponder how it passed away?’

‘Know'st thou not me?’ the Deep Voice cried; ‘So long enjoyed, so often misused, Alternate, in thy fickle pride, Desired, neglected, and accused!

Before my breath, like blazing flax, Man and his marvels pass away! And changing empires wane and wax, Are founded, flourish, and decay.

Redeem mine hours—the space is brief— While in my glass the sand-grains shiver, And measureless thy joy or grief, When Time and thou shalt part for ever!’

Scott.

[LX]
THE RED HARLAW

The herring loves the merry moonlight, The mackerel loves the wind, But the oyster loves the dredging sang, For they come of a gentle kind.

Now haud your tongue, baith wife and carle, And listen, great and sma', And I will sing of Glenallan's Earl That fought on the red Harlaw.

The cronach's cried on Bennachie, And doun the Don and a', And hieland and lawland may mournfu' be For the sair field of Harlaw.

They saddled a hundred milk-white steeds, They hae bridled a hundred black, With a chafron of steel on each horse's head And a good knight upon his back.

They hadna ridden a mile, a mile, A mile, but barely ten, When Donald came branking down the brae Wi' twenty thousand men.

Their tartans they were waving wide, Their glaives were glancing clear, The pibrochs rang frae side to side, Would deafen ye to hear.

The great Earl in his stirrups stood, That Highland host to see: ‘Now here a knight that's stout and good May prove a jeopardie:

What wouldst thou do, my squire so gay, That rides beside my reyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl the day, And I were Roland Cheyne?

To turn the rein were sin and shame, To fight were wondrous peril: What would ye do now, Roland Cheyne, Were ye Glenallan's Earl?’

‘Were I Glenallan's Earl this tide, And ye were Roland Cheyne, The spur should be in my horse's side, And the bridle upon his mane.

If they hae twenty thousand blades, And we twice ten times ten, Yet they hae but their tartan plaids, And we are mail-clad men.

My horse shall ride through ranks sae rude, As through the moorland fern, Then ne'er let the gentle Norman blude Grow cauld for Highland kerne.’

Scott.

[LXI]
FAREWELL

Farewell! Farewell! the voice you hear Has left its last soft tone with you; Its next must join the seaward cheer, And shout among the shouting crew.

The accents which I scarce could form Beneath your frown's controlling check, Must give the word, above the storm, To cut the mast and clear the wreck.

The timid eye I dared not raise, The hand that shook when pressed to thine, Must point the guns upon the chase, Must bid the deadly cutlass shine.

To all I love, or hope, or fear, Honour or own, a long adieu! To all that life has soft and dear, Farewell! save memory of you!

Scott.

[LXII]
BONNY DUNDEE

To the Lords of Convention 'twas Claver'se who spoke, ‘Ere the King's crown shall fall there are crowns to be broke; So let each Cavalier who loves honour and me, Come follow the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle your horses, and call up your men; Come open the West Port, and let me gang free, And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!’

Dundee he is mounted, he rides up the street, The bells are rung backward, the drums they are beat; But the Provost, douce man, said, ‘Just e'en let him be, The Gude Town is weel quit of that Deil of Dundee.’

As he rode down the sanctified bends of the Bow, Ilk carline was flyting and shaking her pow; But the young plants of grace they looked couthie and slee, Thinking, luck to thy bonnet, thou Bonny Dundee!

With sour-featured Whigs the Grassmarket was crammed, As if half the West had set tryst to be hanged; There was spite in each look, there was fear in each e'e, As they watched for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee.

These cowls of Kilmarnock had spits and had spears, And lang-hafted gullies to kill Cavaliers; But they shrunk to close-heads, and the causeway was free, At the toss of the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

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 Bonny Dundee.’

The Gordon demands of him which way he goes: ‘Where'er shall direct me the shade of Montrose! Your Grace in short space shall hear tidings of me, Or that low lies the bonnet of Bonny Dundee.

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 Bonny 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 Bonny Dundee.

Away to the hills, to the caves, to the rocks, Ere I owe an usurper, I'll couch with the fox; And tremble, false Whigs, in the midst of your glee, You have not seen the last of my bonnet and me!’

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 Bonny Dundee.

Come fill up my cup, come fill up my can, Come saddle the horses and call up the men, Come open your gates, and let me gae free, For it's up with the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!

Sir Walter Scott.

[LXIII]
ROMANCE

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Coleridge.

[LXIV]
SACRIFICE

Iphigeneia, when she heard her doom At Aulis, and when all beside the King Had gone away, took his right hand, and said, ‘O father! I am young and very happy. I do not think the pious Calchas heard Distinctly what the Goddess spake. Old-age Obscures the senses. If my nurse, who knew My voice so well, sometimes misunderstood While I was resting on her knee both arms And hitting it to make her mind my words, And looking in her face, and she in mine, Might he not also hear one word amiss, Spoken from so far off, even from Olympus?’ The father placed his cheek upon her head, And tears dropt down it, but the king of men Replied not. Then the maiden spake once more. ‘O father! say'st thou nothing? Hear'st thou not Me, whom thou ever hast, until this hour, Listened to fondly, and awakened me To hear my voice amid the voice of birds, When it was inarticulate as theirs, And the down deadened it within the nest?’ He moved her gently from him, silent still, And this, and this alone, brought tears from her, Although she saw fate nearer: then with sighs, ‘I thought to have laid down my hair before Benignant Artemis, and not have dimmed Her polisht altar with my virgin blood; I thought to have selected the white flowers To please the Nymphs, and to have asked of each By name, and with no sorrowful regret, Whether, since both my parents willed the change, I might at Hymen's feet bend my clipt brow; And (after those who mind us girls the most) Adore our own Athena, that she would Regard me mildly with her azure eyes. But, father! to see you no more, and see Your love, O father! go ere I am gone.’ ... Gently he moved her off, and drew her back, Bending his lofty head far over hers, And the dark depths of nature heaved and burst. He turned away; not far, but silent still. She now first shuddered; for in him, so nigh, So long a silence seemed the approach of death, And like it. Once again she raised her voice. ‘O father! if the ships are now detained, And all your vows move not the Gods above, When the knife strikes me there will be one prayer The less to them: and purer can there be Any, or more fervent than the daughter's prayer For her dear father's safety and success?’ A groan that shook him shook not his resolve. An aged man now entered, and without One word, stept slowly on, and took the wrist Of the pale maiden. She looked up, and saw The fillet of the priest and calm cold eyes. Then turned she where her parent stood, and cried, ‘O father! grieve no more: the ships can sail.’

Landor.

[LXV]
SOLDIER AND SAILOR

I love contemplating, apart From all his homicidal glory, The traits that soften to our heart Napoleon's story!

'Twas when his banners at Boulogne Armed in our island every freeman, His navy chanced to capture one Poor British seaman.

They suffered him, I know not how, Unprisoned on the shore to roam; And aye was bent his longing brow On England's home.

His eye, methinks, pursued the flight Of birds to Britain half-way over With envy; they could reach the white Dear cliffs of Dover.

A stormy midnight watch, he thought, Than this sojourn would have been dearer, If but the storm his vessel brought To England nearer.

At last, when care had banished sleep, He saw one morning—dreaming—doating, An empty hogshead from the deep Come shoreward floating;

He hid it in a cave, and wrought The live-long day laborious; lurking Until he launched a tiny boat By mighty working.

Heaven help us! 'twas a thing beyond Description, wretched: such a wherry Perhaps ne'er ventured on a pond, Or crossed a ferry.

For ploughing in the salt-sea field, It would have made the boldest shudder; Untarred, uncompassed, and unkeeled, No sail—no rudder.

From neighb'ring woods he interlaced His sorry skiff with wattled willows; And thus equipped he would have passed The foaming billows—

But Frenchmen caught him on the beach, His little Argo sorely jeering; Till tidings of him chanced to reach Napoleon's hearing.

With folded arms Napoleon stood, Serene alike in peace and danger; And, in his wonted attitude, Addressed the stranger:—

‘Rash man, that wouldst yon Channel pass On twigs and staves so rudely fashioned: Thy heart with some sweet British lass Must be impassioned.’

‘I have no sweetheart,’ said the lad; ‘But—absent long from one another— Great was the longing that I had To see my mother.’

‘And so thou shalt,’ Napoleon said, ‘Ye've both my favour fairly won; A noble mother must have bred So brave a son.’

He gave the tar a piece of gold, And, with a flag of truce, commanded He should be shipped to England Old, And safely landed.

Our sailor oft could scantly shift To find a dinner, plain and hearty; But never changed the coin and gift Of Bonaparté.

Campbell.

[LXVI]
‘YE MARINERS’

Ye Mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years The battle and the breeze! Your glorious standard launch again To match another foe! And sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The spirits of your fathers Shall start from every wave! For the deck it was their field of fame, And Ocean was their grave: Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell Your manly hearts shall glow, As ye sweep through the deep, While the stormy winds do blow; While the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

Britannia needs no bulwarks, No towers along the steep; Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, Her home is on the deep. With thunders from her native oak She quells the floods below, As they roar on the shore, When the stormy winds do blow; When the battle rages loud and long, And the stormy winds do blow.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn; Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return. Then, then, ye ocean warriors! Our song and feast shall flow To the fame of your name, When the storm has ceased to blow; When the fiery fight is heard no more, And the storm has ceased to blow.

Campbell.

[LXVII]
THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC

Of Nelson and the North Sing the glorious day's renown, When to battle fierce came forth All the might of Denmark's crown, And her arms along the deep proudly shone; By each gun the lighted brand In a bold determined hand, And the Prince of all the land Led them on.

Like leviathans afloat, Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line: It was ten of April morn by the chime: As they drifted on their path, There was silence deep as death; And the boldest held his breath, For a time.

But the might of England flushed To anticipate the scene; And her van the fleeter rushed O'er the deadly space between. ‘Hearts of oak!’ our captains cried; when each gun From its adamantine lips Spread a death-shade round the ships, Like the hurricane eclipse Of the sun.

Again! again! again! And the havoc did not slack, Till a feeble cheer the Dane, To our cheering sent us back;— Their shots along the deep slowly boom:— Then cease—and all is wail, As they strike the shattered sail; Or, in conflagration pale Light the gloom.

Now joy, Old England, raise For the tidings of thy might, By the festal cities' blaze, Whilst the wine-cup shines in light; And yet amidst that joy and uproar, Let us think of them that sleep Full many a fathom deep By thy wild and stormy steep, Elsinore!

Campbell.

[LXVIII]
BATTLE SONG

Day, like our souls, is fiercely dark; What then? 'Tis day! We sleep no more; the cock crows—hark! To arms! away! They come! they come! the knell is rung Of us or them; Wide o'er their march the pomp is flung Of gold and gem. What collared hound of lawless sway, To famine dear, What pensioned slave of Attila, Leads in the rear? Come they from Scythian wilds afar Our blood to spill? Wear they the livery of the Czar? They do his will. Nor tasselled silk, nor epaulette, Nor plume, nor torse— No splendour gilds, all sternly met, Our foot and horse. But, dark and still, we inly glow, Condensed in ire! Strike, tawdry slaves, and ye shall know Our gloom is fire. In vain your pomp, ye evil powers, Insults the land; Wrongs, vengeance, and the cause are ours, And God's right hand! Madmen! they trample into snakes The wormy clod! Like fire, beneath their feet awakes The sword of God! Behind, before, above, below, They rouse the brave; Where'er they go, they make a foe, Or find a grave.

Elliott.

[LXIX]
LOYALTY

Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie! When the flower is i' the bud and the leaf is on the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countrie; Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The green leaf o' loyaltie's begun for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering an' a'; But I'll water 't wi' the blude of usurping tyrannie, An' green it will grow in my ain countrie. Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

The great are now gane, a' wha ventured to save; The new grass is springing on the tap o' their grave: But the sun thro' the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, ‘I'll shine on ye yet in yere ain countrie.’ Hame, hame, hame, hame fain wad I be, Hame, hame, hame, to my ain countrie!

Cunningham.