II.
Pure blood our fathers gave us,
And pure still through our veins it runs;
Far better lose the last drop here,
Than taint it for our sons.
Oh! spirits of our heroes,
In the fight be nigh, be nigh!
For we’ll conquer—we’ll conquer—
We’ll conquer—or we’ll die.
III.
The axe will strike the oak down,
The lightning will the tower lay low;
But nations smote by tyranny,
Grow stronger every blow.
Revenge, revenge in the battle,
To the heart and sword be nigh!—
Oh! we’ll conquer—we’ll conquer—
We’ll conquer—or we’ll die.
The power of music combined with poetry, seems more gigantic when applied to the struggles of a people for liberty—or in other words—to exalt the passion of patriotism, than any other emotion of the heart; perhaps, because the passion itself is more susceptible of excitement than others. The songs of every nation speak more strongly the character of the particular people to which they belong, than any thing that can be written by the pen of the commentator or the historian. It was a great statesman who said “Give me but the power to write the songs of a nation, and I will govern them;” an observation in my mind, of no less strength than truth. The war-songs of every people are part of their arsenal; and by no means the least in power. The Scotch pipes have done nearly as much as the claymore. An instance of this occurred with the late gallant Colonel Cameron of the 42d. The piper was detached from the corps by the order of the General at an engagement in Holland—the men went into action without him;—they charged, and were repulsed. The General, on the evening of the same day, said to the Colonel, “Don’t boast of your 42d again.” To this censure Colonel Cameron replied, “General, you are to blame—you took our arms from us.”—“How?”—“You took the pipes from us: let us have them, and we’ll prove the 42d worthy of the highest boast.” This was done; the regiment had an opportunity next day of charging with the pipes behind them, and they covered themselves with glory. The Irish too, at the storming of Badajos, carried the breach to the tune of “Garryowen,” played by their own band under the most destructive fire. The power of national song was so feared by Buonaparte, that he forbade the Swiss air “Le Ranz des Vaches” in his army, lest the natives of that country should desert. It was stated in the French National Assembly that the Marseillois Hymn brought a million of recruits to the army; and certainly it might be said that Dibdin’s songs did more for the British navy than the whole of the press-gang. The anthem of “God save the King” every body values, yet none have said, (although I believe it to be truth) that it is a strong bulwark of the throne—that it throws a sublimity—a grandeur—a general respect around royalty; excites the warmest sentiments of devotion, and secures unconscious attachment. The national hymn of Portugal is strongly expressive of that mixture of melancholy and martial boldness of sound which inspires the hearer to meditate revenge for injuries done; and, as the Spaniards suffered in a similar way to the Portuguese, their national song carries with it a sentiment precisely similar to that of Portugal. This song was not composed during the days of Ferdinand, but while the nation was struggling, in concert with the British, for liberty; and every Guerilla sung it—every peasant sung it—every child sung it. Its title is, “A la Guerra Espaniolas;” the Spanish words of it are simple, but strong; and the music, like the national air of the Portuguese, is truly beautiful. The following are English words, written for it among the mountains of Biscay; and to those of my readers who know the air, perhaps they will be acceptable.
THE SPANISH NATIONAL SONG.
I.
The curse of Slavery’s o’er us,
And suffering Freedom weeps;
No hope—no hope’s before us
While Spain’s bright spirit sleeps.
But if her slumbers lighten,
Then Freedom’s glance will brighten,
And lips shall cease to sigh, and hearts to pain.
So let us smite
The drum of fight;
She’ll wake and rise again.
To the war—to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh,
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free—live free,—or die!
II.
In death our sons are sleeping
Our homes in ruin laid;
Our daughters o’er them weeping,
Alone—forlorn—betrayed!
In vain is Britain’s bravery,
To rid you of your slavery;
In vain her heroes bleed—her arms resound,
Unless the fire
Of Freedom’s ire
Burn every heart around.
To the war—to the war, ye Spaniards!
The hour is nigh
To break your chain;
Your rights to gain.
Live free—live free,—or die!
—But enough of music: let us now march on without it.