No More Learning

And so a birth, not death, we stand beside;
Our own fast-gathering years come glorified;
And braver we abide
That we have seen heaven's great door flung awide.
ADELINE D. T. WHITNEY.


## p. 16413 (#113) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16413
BEN BOLT
Dº
On't you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt -
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
Who wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
And trembled with fear at your frown?
In the old church-yard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
In a corner obscure and alone,
They have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,
And Alice lies under the stone.
Under the hickory-tree, Ben Bolt,
Which stood at the foot of the hill,
Together we've lain in the noonday shade,
And listened to Appleton's mill.
The mill-wheei has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,
The rafters have tumbled in,
And a quiet that crawls round the walls as you gaze
Has followed the olden din.
Do you mind the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,
At the edge of the pathless wood,
And the button-ball tree with its motley limbs,
Which nigh by the doorstep stood ?
The cabin to ruin has gone, Ben Bolt;
The tree you would seek for in vain;
And where once the lords of the forest waved,
Are grass and the golden grain.
And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,
And the shaded nook in the running brook
Where the children went to swim ?
Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,
And of all the boys who were schoolmates then
There are only you and I.
There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.
Twelvemonths twenty have passed, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends; yet I hail
Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth,
Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale!
THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.


## p. 16414 (#114) ##########################################

16414
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET
Hº
ow dear to this heart are the scenes of iny childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view!
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well!
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.
That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when returned from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure, -
The purest and sweetest that nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,
And quick to the white pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well:
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket arose from the well.
How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips!
Not a full-blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hangs in the well.
SAMUEL WoodWORTH.
THE BRAVE OLD OAK
A
SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;


## p. 16415 (#115) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16415
And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!
In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.
And on that day to the rebeck gay
They frolicked with lovesome swains:
They are gone, they are dead, in the church-yard laid,
But the tree it still remains.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear,
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.
Then here's to the oak, etc.
HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.
WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!
Wºº
TOODMAN, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea -
And wouldst thou hew it down?


## p. 16416 (#116) ##########################################

16416
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak,
Now towering to the skies!
When but an idle boy,
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy
Here too my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here;
My father pressed my hand, -
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand!
My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot:
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not!
GEORGE P. MORRIS.
THE OLD ARM-CHAIR
1
LOVE it, I love it; and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize;
I've bedewed it with tears, and embalmed it with sighs.
'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart:
Not a tie will break, not a link will start.
Would ye learn the spell ? - a mother sat there;
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.
In childhood's hour I lingered near
The hallowed seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.
She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.


## p. 16417 (#117) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16417
I sat and watched her many a day,
When her eye grew dim, and her locks grew gray;
And I almost worshiped her when she smiled,
And turned from her Bible to bless her child.
Years rolled on; but the last one sped:
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled;
I learnt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm-chair.
'Tis past, 'tis past; but I gaze on it now
With quivering breath and throbbing brow:
'Twas there she nursed me; 'twas there she died:
And Memory flows with lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,
While the scalding drops start down my cheek:
But I love it, I love it; and cannot tear
My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.
ELIZA COOK.
SONG OF STEAM
H^
ARNESS me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands
As the tempest scorns a chain.
How I laughed, as I lay concealed from sight
For many a countless hour,
At the childish boast of human might,
And the pride of human power!
When I saw an army upon the land,
A navy upon the seas,
Creeping along, a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze;
When I marked the peasant faintly reel,
With the toil that he daily bore,
As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar;
When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love;
XXVIII-1027


## p. 16418 (#118) ##########################################

16418
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
I could but think how the world would feel,
As these were outstripped afar,
When I should be bound to the rushing keel,
Or chained to the flying car!
Ha! ha! ha! they found me at last;
They invited me forth at length:
And I rushed to my throne with a thunder-blast,
And laughed in my iron strength:
Oh! then ye saw a wondrous change
On the earth and ocean wide,
Where now my fiery armies range,
Nor wait for wind or tide.
Hurrah! hurrah! the waters o'er,
The mountain's steep decline;
Time, space, have yielded to my power,
The world - the world is mine!
The rivers the sun hath earliest blest,
Or those where his beams decline,
The giant streams of the queenly West,
Or the Orient floods divine.
The Ocean pales wherever I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice;
And monsters of the briny deep
Cower, trembling, at my voice.
I carry the wealth of the lord of earth,
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The wind lags after my going forth,
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
My tireless arm doth play,
Where the rocks ne'er saw the sun's decline,
Or the dawn of the glorious day;
I bring earth's glittering jewels up
From the hidden caves below,
And I make the fountain's granite cup
With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
I hammer the ore, and turn the wheel
Where my arms of strength are made;


## p. 16419 (#119) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16419
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry,
I spin, I weave;
And all my doings I put in print
On every Saturday eve.
I've no muscles to weary, no brains to decay,
No bones to be “laid on the shelf));
And soon I intend you may go and play,”
While I manage the world myself.
But harness me down with your iron ands;
Be sure of your curb and rein;
For I scorn the strength of your puny hands,
As the tempest scorns a chain.
GEORGE W. CUTTER.
TUBAL CAIN
O"
LD Tubal Cain was a man of might,
In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,
Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and spear.
And he sang,
«Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and the sword!
Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be king and lord!
To Tubal Cain came many a one,
As he wrought by his roaring fire,
And each one prayed for a strong steel blade
As the crown of his desire;
And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,
And gave him gifts of pearl and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.
And they said, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith, hurrah for the fire,
And hurrah for the metal true! ”


## p. 16420 (#120) ##########################################

16420
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,
And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done:
He saw that men with rage and hate
Made war upon their kind,
That the land was red with the blood they shed
In their lust for carnage blind.
And he said, "Alas that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man! »
And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;
And his hand forbore to smite, the ore,
And his furnace smoldered low.
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,
And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high;
And he sang,
“Hurrah for my handiwork! ”
And the red sparks lit the air :
“Not alone for the blade was the bright steel
made,"
And he fashioned the first plowshare.
And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,
Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plowed the willing lands;
And sung, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain!
Our stanch good friend is he;
And for the plowshare and the plow
To him our praise shall be.
But while oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,
Though we may thank him for the plow,
We'll not forget the sword! ”
CHARLES MACKAY,


## p. 16421 (#121) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16421
DIFFERENCES
TH
He king can drink the best of wine -
So can I;
And has enough when he would dine --
So have I;
And cannot order rain or shine -
Nor can I.
Then where's the difference - let me see
Betwixt my lord the king and me ?
Do trusty friends surround his throne
Night and day?
Or make his interest their own ?
No, not they.
Mine love me for myself alone -
Blessed be they!
And that's the difference which I see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
Do knaves around me lie in wait
To deceive ?
Or fawn and flatter when they hate,
And would grieve ?
Or cruel pomps oppress my state
By my leave?
No, Heaven be thanked! And here you see
More difference 'twixt the king and me.
He has his fools, with jests and quips,
When he'd play;
He has his armies and his ships —
Great are they;
But not a child to kiss his lips —
Well-a-day!
And that's a difference sad to see
Betwixt my lord the king and me.
I wear the cap and he the crown
What of that ?
I sleep on straw and he on down-
What of that?
And he's the king and I'm the clown --
What of that?
If happy I, and wretched he,
Perhaps the king would change with me.
CHARLES MACKAY.


## p. 16422 (#122) ##########################################

16422
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
COM
STONEWALL JACKSON'S WAY
OME, stack arms, men! Pile on the rails,
Stir up the camp-fire bright;
No growling if the canteen fails,
We'll make a roaring night.
Here Shenandoah brawls along,
There burly Blue Ridge echoes strong,
To swell the brigade's rousing song
Of Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
We see him now- the queer slouched hat
Cocked o'er his eye askew;
The shrewd, dry smile; the speech so pat,
So calm, so blunt, so true.
The Blue-Light Elder » knows 'em well:
Says he, “That's Banks — he's fond of shell;
Lord save his soul! we'll give him — » Well!
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
Silence! ground arms! kneel all! caps off!
old Blue Light's goin' to pray.
Strangle the fool that dares to scoff!
Attention! it's his way.
Appealing from his native sod,
In forma pauperis to God:
“Lay bare thine arm; stretch forth thy rod!
Amen! ) That's Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
He's in the saddle now. Fall in!
Steady! the whole brigade!
Hill's at the ford, cut off; we'll win
His way out, ball and blade!
What matter if our shoes are worn ?
What matter if our feet are torn ?
“Quick step! we're with him before morn! »
That's “Stonewall Jackson's way. ”
(
The sun's bright lances rout the mists
Of morning, and, by George!
Here's Longstreet, struggling in the lists,
Hemmed in an ugly gorge;
Pope and his Dutchman, whipped before.
“Bay'nets and grape! ” hear Stonewall roar;
Charge, Stuart! Pay off Ashby's score !
In «Stonewall Jackson's way. "
(


## p. 16423 (#123) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16423
Ah, maidens, wait and watch and yearn
For news of Stonewall's band!
Ah, widow, read with eyes that burn,
That ring upon thy hand!
Ah, wife, sew on, pray on, hope on!
Thy life shall not be all forlorn:
The foe had better ne'er been born
That gets in “Stonewall's way. ”
JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.
THE CAUSE OF THE SOUTH
THE
He fallen cause still waits,-
Its bard has not come yet;
His song through one of to-morrow's gates
Shall shine, but never set.
But when he comes, he'll sweep
A harp with tears all stringed;
And the very notes he strikes will weep
As they come from his hand, woe-winged.
Ah! grand shall be his strain,
And his songs shall fill all climes;
And the Rebels shall rise and march again
Down the lines of his glorious rhymes.
And through his verse shall gleam
The swords that flashed in vain;
And the men who wore the gray shall seem
To be marshaling again.
But hush! between his words
Peer faces sad and pale,
And you hear the sound of broken chords
Beat through the poet's wail.
Through his verse the orphans cry —
The terrible undertone!
And the father's curse and the mother's sigh,
And the desolate young wife's moan.
I sing, with a voice too low
To be heard beyond to-day,
In minor keys of my people's woe;
And my songs will pass away.


## p. 16424 (#124) ##########################################

16424
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
To-morrow hears them not,-
To-morrow belongs to fame:
My songs, like the birds', will be forgot,
And forgotten shall be my name.
And yet, who knows! betimes
The grandest songs depart,
While the gentle, humble, and low-toned rhymes
Will echo from heart to heart.
ABRAM J. RYAN.
THE AULD STUARTS BACK AGAIN
T"
He auld Stuarts back again,
The auld Stuarts back again;
Let howlet Whig do what they can,
The Stuarts will be back again.
Wha cares for a' their creeshy duds,
And a' Kilmarnock sowen suds ?
We'll wauk their hides and file their fuds,
And bring the Stuarts back again.
There's Ayr and Irvine, wi' the rest,
And a' the cronies i’ the west,
Lord! sic a scawed and scabbit nest!
How they'll set up their crack again!
But wad they come, or dare they come,
Afore the bagpipe and the drum,
We'll either gar them a' sing dumb,
Or «Auld Stuarts back again. ”
Give ear unto my loyal sang,
A' ye that ken the right frae wrang,
And a' that look and think it lang,
For auld Stuarts back again.
Were ye wi' me to chase the rae,
Out owre the hills and far away,
And saw the lords were there that day,
To bring the Stuarts back again,
There ye might see the noble Mar,
Wi' Athol, Huntly, and Traquair,
Seaforth, Kilsyth, and Auldubair,
And mony mae, whatreck, again.


## p. 16425 (#125) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16425
Then what are a' their westland crews ?
We'll gar the tailors tack again:
Can they forestand the tartan trews,
And auld Stuarts back again ?
Anonymous Jacobite Song, 1714.
THE HEATH-COCK
T"
HE heath-cock crawed o'er muir an' dale;
Red rase the sun o'er distant vale;
Our Northern clans, wi' distant yell,
Around their chiefs were gathering.
« O Duncan, are ye ready yet,
M'Donald, are ye ready yet,
O Frazer, are ye ready yet,
To join the clans in the morning ? ”
Nae mair we'll chase the fleet, fleet roe
O'er dowie glen or mountain brow,
But rush like tempest on the foe,
Wi' sword an' targe this morning.
«O Duncan,” etc.
>
The Prince has come to claim his ain,
A stem o' Stuart's glorious name;
What Highlander his sword wad hain
For Charlie's cause this morning ?
“O Duncan,” etc.
On yonder hills our clans appear,
The sun back frae their spears shines clear;
The Southron trumps fall on my ear; –
'Twill be an awfu' morning.
«O Duncan,” etc.
The contest lasted sair an' lang;
The pipers blew, the echoes rang;
The cannon roared the clans amang,
Culloden's awfu' morning.
Duncan now nae mair seems keen;
He's lost his dirk an' tartan sheen;
His bannet's stained that ance was clean; —
Foul fa' that awfu' morning.


## p. 16426 (#126) ##########################################

16426
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
But Scotland lang shall rue the day
She saw her flag sae fiercely flee;
Culloden hills were hills o' wae,-
It was an awfu' morning.
Duncan now, etc.
Fair Flora's gane her love to seek;
The midnight dew fa's on her cheek; –
What Scottish heart that will not weep
For Charlie's fate that morning ?
Duncan now nae mair seems keen;
He's lost his dirk an' tartan sheen;
His bannet's stained that ance was clean;-
Foul fa' that awfu' morning.
WILLIAM NICHOLSON.
WHAT'S A' THE STEER, KIMMER?
HE
WHAT
THAT'S a' the steer, kimmer?
What's a' the steer?
SHE
Charlie he is landed,
An', faith, he'll soon be here.
The win' was at his back, carle,
The win' was at his back;
I carena, sin' he's come, carle,
We were na worth a plack.
HE
I'm right glad to hear 't, kimmer,
I'm right glad to hear 't;
I ha'e a gude braid claymore,
And for his sake I'll wear 't.
TOGETHER
Sin' Charlie he is landed,
We ha'e nae mair to fear;
Sin' Charlie he is come, kimmer,
We'll ha'e a jub'lee year.
ROBERT ALLAN.


## p. 16427 (#127) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16427
WAE'S ME FOR PRINCE CHARLIE!
A
WEE bird came to our ha' door;
He warbled sweet and clearly;
And
aye
the o'ercome o' his sang
Was Wae's me for Prince Charlie ! »
Oh, when I heard the bonny, bonny bird,
The tears came drapping rarely;
I took my bonnet aff my head,
For weel I lo'ed Prince Charlie.
Quoth I: “My bird, my bonny, bonny bird,
Is that a tale ye borrow?
Or is 't some words ye've learned by rote,
Or a lilt o' dool and sorrow? »
«Oh no, no, no! the wee bird sang:
“I've flown sin' morning early ;
But sic a day o'wind and rain! -
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie !
-
“On hills that are by right his ain
He roams a lonely stranger;
On ilka hand he's pressed by want,
On ilka side by danger.
Yestreen I met him in the glen,-
My heart near bursted fairly;
For sadly changed indeed was he —
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie!
“Dark night came on; the tempest howled
Out owre the hills and valleys:
And where was 't that your prince lay down,
Whase hame should be a palace ?
He rowed him in a Highland plaid,
Which covered him but sparely,
And slept beneath a bush o' broom –
Oh, wae's me for Prince Charlie ! »
But now the bird saw some redcoats,
And he shook his wings wi' anger:
“Oh, this is no a land for me —
I'll tarry here nae langer. ”
Awhile he hovered on the wing,
Ere he departed fairly;
But weel I mind the farewell strain
'Twas “Wae's me for Prince Charlie! »
WILLIAM GLEN.


## p. 16428 (#128) ##########################################

16428
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE WEAVING OF THE TARTAN
I
SAW an old dame weaving,
Weaving, weaving,
I saw an old dame weaving
A web of tartan fine.
“Sing high,” she said, "sing low,” she said,
« Wild torrent to the sea,
That saw my exiled bairnies torn
In sorrow far frae me.
And warp well the long threads,
The bright threads, the strong threads,
Woof well the cross threads,
To make the colors shine. ”
She wove in red for every deed
Of valor done for Scotia's need;
She wove in green, the laurel's sheen,
In memory of her glorious dead.
She spake of Alma's steep incline,
The desert march, the thin red line);
Of how it fired the blood and stirred the heart
Where'er a bairn of hers took part.
« 'Tis for the gallant lads,” she said,
« Who wear the kilt and tartan plaid;
'Tis for the winsome lasses too,
Just like my dainty bells of blue:
So weave well the bright threads,
The red threads, the green threads,
Woof well the strong threads
That bind their hearts to mine. ”
(
I saw an old dame sighing,
Sighing, sighing;
I saw an old dame sighing,
Beside a lonely glen.
Sing high,” she said, "sing low,” she said,
« Wild tempest to the sea,
The wailing of the pibroch's note,
That bade farewell to me.
And wae fa' the red deer,
The swift deer, the strong deer,
Wae fa’ the cursed deer,
That take the place o' men. ”


## p. 16429 (#129) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16429
Where'er a noble deed is wrought,
Where'er the brightest realms of thought,
The artist's skill, the martial thrill,
Be sure to Scotia's land is wed.
She casts the glamour of her name
O'er Britain's throne and statesman's fame;
From distant lands 'neath foreign names,
Some brilliant son his birthright claims.
For ah! she has reared them mid tempests,
And cradled them in snow,
To give the Scottish arms their strength,
Their hearts a kindly glow.
So weave well the bright threads,
The red threads, the green threads,
Woof well the strong threads,
That bind their hearts to thine.
ALICE C. MacDonELL.
MUCKLE-MOU'D MEG
(
O
H, WHA hae ye brought us hame now, my brave lord,
Strappit flaught ower his braid saddle-bow ?
Some bauld Border reiver to feast at our board
An' herry our pantry, I trow.
He's buirdly an' stalwart in lith an' in limb:
Gin ye were his master in war
The field was a saft eneugh litter for him —
Ye needna hae brought him sae far;-
Then saddle an’ munt again, harness an' dunt again,
An' when ye gae hunt again, strike higher game. "
“Hoot, whist ye, my dame, for he comes o' gude kin,
An' boasts o' a lang pedigree;
This night he maun share o' our gude cheer within,
At morning's gray dawn he maun dee.
He's gallant Wat Scott, heir o' proud Harden Ha',
Wha ettled our lands clear to sweep;
But now he is snug in auld Elibank's paw,
An' shall swing frae our donjon-keep.
Though saddle an' munt again, harness an’dunt again,
I'll ne'er when I hunt again strike higher game. ” –


## p. 16430 (#130) ##########################################

16430
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
“Is this young Wat Scott ? an' wad ye rax his craig,
When our daughter is fey for a man?
Gae, gaur the loun marry our muckle-mou'd Meg,
Or we'll ne'er get the jaud aff our han’! »
« 'Od, hear our gudewife! she wad fain save your life; –
Wat Scott, will ye marry or hang ? ”
But Meg's muckle mou set young Wat's heart agrue,
Wha swore to the woodie he'd gang.
Ne'er saddle nor munt again, harness nor dunt again,
Wat ne'er shall hunt again, ne'er see his hame.
Syne muckle-mou'd Meg pressed in close to his side,
An' blinkit fu' sleely and kind;
But aye as Wat glowered on his braw proffered bride,
He shook like a leaf in the wind.
«A bride or a gallows; a rope or a wife! ”
The morning dawned sunny and clear:
Wat boldly strode forward to part wi' his life,
Till he saw Meggy shedding a tear;
Then saddle an' munt again, harness an’dunt again,
Fain wad Wat hunt again, fain wad he hame.
Meg's tear touched his bosom — the gibbet frowned high-
An' slowly Wat strode to his doom;
He gae a glance round wi' a tear in his eye, -
Meg shone like a star through the gloom.
She rushed to his arms; they were wed on the spot,
An' lo'ed ither muckle and lang.
Nae bauld border laird had a wife like Wat Scott:
'Twas better to marry than hang.
So saddle an' munt again, harness an’dunt again,
Elibank hunt again, Wat's snug at hame.
JAMES BALLANTYNE.
YE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND
Y
E GENTLEMEN of England
That live at home at ease,
Ah! little do you think upon
The dangers of the seas.
Give ear unto the mariners,
And they will plainly show
All the cares and the fears
When the stormy winds do blow.


## p. 16431 (#131) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16431
If enemies oppose us
When England is at war
With any foreign nation,
We fear not wound or scar:
Our roaring guns shall teach 'em
Our valor for to know,
Whilst they reel on the keel,
And the stormy winds do blow.
Then courage, all brave mariners,
And never be dismayed:
While we have bold adventurers,
We ne'er shall want a trade;
Our merchants will employ us
To fetch them wealth, we know:
Then be bold — work for gold,
When the stormy winds do blow.
MARTYN PARKER.
HANDS ALL ROUND
F
IRST drink a health, this solemn night,
A health to England, every guest:
That man's the best cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.
May freedom's oak for ever live
With stronger life from day to day:
That man's the best Conservative
Who lops the moldered branch away.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's hope confound!
To this great cause of Freedom drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
A health to Europe's honest men!
Heaven guard them from her tyrants' jails!
From wronged Poerio's noisome den,
From iron limbs and tortured nails!
We curse the crimes of southern kings,
The Russian whips and Austrian rods:
We likewise have our evil things,-
Too much we make our ledgers, gods.


## p. 16432 (#132) ##########################################

16432
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Yet hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound!
To Europe's better health we drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round!
What health to France, if France be she,
Whom martial progress only charms?
Yet tell her — better to be free
Than vanquish all the world in arms.
Her frantic city's flashing heats
But fire, to blast the hopes of men.
Why change the titles of your streets ?
You fools, you'll want them all again.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound!
To France, the wiser France, we drink, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
Gigantic daughter of the West,
We drink to thee across the flood!
We know thee and we love thee best;
For art thou not of British blood ?
Should war's mad blast again be blown,
Permit not thou the tyrant powers
To fight thy mother here alone,
But let thy broadsides roar with ours.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound !
To our great kinsman of the West, my friends,
And the great name of England, round and round.
Oh rise, our strong Atlantic sons,
When war against our freedom springs !
Oh, speak to Europe through your guns!
They can be understood by kings.
You must not mix our Queen with those
That wish to keep their people fools:
Our freedom's foemen are her foes;
She comprehends the race she rules.
Hands all round!
God the tyrant's cause confound!
To our great kinsmen in the West, my friends,
And the great cause of Freedom, round and round.
ALFRED TENNYSON.


## p. 16433 (#133) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16433
RECESSIONAL
In the London Times at the end of the Queen's Jubilee, 1897
Gº
Od of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine —
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget — lest we forget!
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe,-
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law,-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget - lest we forget!
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,–
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not thee to guard, -
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!
Amen.
RUDYARD KIPLING.
XXVIII-1028


## p. 16434 (#134) ##########################################

16434
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER
O
SAY, can you see by the dawn's early light
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleam-
ing?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming!
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there:
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On that shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
Its full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
'Tis the star-spangled banner; oh, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of fight, or the gloom of the grave;
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
Oh, thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just;
And this be our motto,-“In God is our trust :)
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.


## p. 16435 (#135) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16435
THE MARSEILLAISE
Y*
E SONS of Freedom, wake to glory!
Hark! hark! what myriads bid you rise!
Your children, wives, and grandsires hoary,
Behold their tears and hear their cries!
Shall hateful tyrants, mischiefs breeding,
With hireling hosts, a ruffian band,
Affright and desolate the land,
While peace and liberty lie bleeding?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!
Now, now the dangerous storm is rolling,
Which treacherous kings confederate raise;
The dogs of war, let loose, are howling,
And lo! our fields and cities blaze:
And shall we basely view the ruin,
While lawless force, with guilty stride,
Spreads desolation far and wide,
With crimes and blood his hands imbruing ?
To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!
O Liberty! can man resign thee,
Once having felt thy generous flame?
Can dungeons, bolts, or bars confine thee?
Or whips thy noble spirit tame?
Too long the world has wept, bewailing
That falsehood's dagger tyrants wield;
But freedom is our sword and shield,
And all their arts are unavailing.
To arms! to arms! ye brave!
The avenging sword unsheathe;
March on! march on! all hearts resolved
On victory or death!
(Abbreviated. )
ROUGET DE LISLE.


## p. 16436 (#136) ##########################################

16436
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
THE DEPARTURE FOR SYRIA
(LE DÉPART 1809, POUR LA SYRIE)
[The music of this song, which was composed by Queen Hortense, mother
of Napoleon III. , became the national air of the French Empire. ]
T°
O SYRIA young Dunois will go,
That gallant, handsome knight,
And prays the Virgin to bestow
Her blessing on the fight.
“O Thou who reign’st in heaven above,”
He prayed, "grant this to me:
The fairest maiden let me love,
The bravest warrior be. ”
He pledges then his knightly word,
His vow writes on the stone,
And following the count, his lord,
To battle he has gone.
To keep his oath he ever strove,
And sang aloud with glee,
The fairest maid shall have my love,
And honor mine shall be. ”
C
Then said the count, « To thee we owe
Our victory, I confess;
Glory on me thou didst bestow,-
I give thee happiness:
My daughter, whom I fondly love,
I gladly give to thee;
She, who is fair all maids above,
Should valor's guerdon be. ”
They kneel at Mary's altar both, -
The maid and gallant knight,-
And there with happy hearts their troth
Right solemnly they plight.
It was a sight all souls to move;
And all cried joyously,
«Give honor to the brave, and love
Shall beauty's guerdon be. ”
M. DE LABORDE.


## p. 16437 (#137) ##########################################

SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
16437
THE WATCH ON THE RHINE
VOICE resounds like thunder-peal,
’Mid dashing waves and clang of steel:-
« The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!
Who guards to-day my stream divine ? »
A.
Chorus
Dear Fatherland, no danger thine:
Firm stand thy sons to watch the Rhine!
They stand, a hundred thousand strong,
Quick to avenge their country's wrong;
With filial love their bosoms swell,
They'll guard the sacred landmark well!
The dead of a heroic race
From heaven look down and meet their gaze;
They swear with dauntless heart, “O Rhine,
Be German as this breast of mine! »
While flows one drop of German blood,
Or sword remains to guard thy flood,
While rifle rests in patriot hand, -
No foe shall tread thy sacred strand!
Our oath resounds, the river flows,
In golden light our banner glows;
Our hearts will guard thy stream divine:
The Rhine, the Rhine, the German Rhine!
MAX SCHNECKENBURGER.
A CINQUE PORT
B
ELOW the down, the stranded town
What may betide forlornly waits;
With memories of smoky skies,
When Gallic navies crossed the straits,
When waves with fire and blood grew bright,
And cannon thundered through the night.
With swinging stride the rhythmic tide
Bore to the harbor barque and sloop;


## p. 16438 (#138) ##########################################

16438
SONGS HYMNS AND LYRICS
Across the bar the ship of war,
In castled stern and lanterned poop,
Came up with conquests on her lee,
The stately mistress of the sea.
Where argosies have wooed the breeze,
The simple sheep are feeding now;
And near and far across the bar
The plowman whistles at the plow;
Where once the long waves washed the shore,
Larks from their lowly lodgings soar.