‘On with the charge!’ he cries, and waves his sword;—
One rolling cheer five thousand voices swell;—
The levelled guns pour forth their leaden shower,
While thund’ring cannons’ roar half drowns the Huron yell.
‘On with the charge!’ with shout and cheer they come;—
No laggard there upon that field of fame.
The lurid plain gleams like a seething hell,
And every rock and tree send forth their bolts of flame.
On! on! they sweep. Uprise the waiting ranks—
Still as the grave—unmoved as granite wall;—
The foe before—the dizzy crags behind—
They fight, the day to win, or like true warriors fall.
Forward they sternly move, then halt to wait
That raging sea of human life now near;—
‘Fire!’ rings from right to left,—each musket rings,
As if a thunder-peal had struck the startled ear.
Again, and yet again that volley flies,—
With deadly aim the grapeshot sweeps the field;—
All levelled for the charge, the bayonets gleam,
And brawny arms a thousand claymores fiercely wield.
And down the line swells high the British cheer,
That on a future day woke Minden’s plain,
And the loud slogan that fair Scotland’s foes
Have often heard with dread, and oft shall hear again.
And the shrill pipe its coronach that wailed
On dark Culloden moor o’er trampled dead,
Now sounds the ‘Onset’ that each clansman knows,
Still leads the foremost rank, where noblest blood is shed.
And on that day no nobler stained the sod,
Than his, who for his country life laid down;
Who, for a mighty Empire battled there,
And strove from rival’s brow to wrest the laurel crown.
Twice struck,—he recks not, but still heads the charge,
But, ah! fate guides the marksman’s fatal ball:—
With bleeding breast, he claims a comrade’s aid,—
‘We win,—let not my soldiers see their Leader fall.’