BERNARD BARTON.

* * * * *

BANNOCKBURN.

[June 24, 1314.]

  Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
  Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
  Welcome to your gory bed,
     Or to victorie.

  Now’s the day, and now’s the hour
  See the front o’ battle lour: 
  See approach proud Edward’s power,—­
     Chains and slaverie!

  Wha will be a traitor knave? 
  Wha can fill a coward’s grave? 
  Wha sae base as be a slave? 
     Let him turn and flee!

  Wha for Scotland’s king and law
  Freedom’s sword will strongly draw,
  Freeman stand, or freeman fa’? 
     Let him follow me!

  By Oppression’s woes and pains! 
  By our sons in servile chains,
  We will drain our dearest veins,
     But they shall be free!

  Lay the proud usurpers low! 
  Tyrants fall in every foe! 
  Liberty’s in every blow! 
     Let us do, or die!

ROBERT BURNS.

* * * * *

SONG OF CLAN-ALPINE.

FROM “THE LADY OF THE LAKE,” CANTO II.

    Loud a hundred clansmen raise
    Their voices in their chieftain’s praise. 
    Each boatman, bending to his oar,
    With measured sweep the burthen bore,
    In such wild cadence, as the breeze
    Makes through December’s leafless trees. 
    The chorus first could Allen know,
    “Roderigh Vich Alpine, ho! ieroe!”
    And near, and nearer, as they rowed,
    Distinct the martial ditty flowed.

  Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances! 
    Honored and blessed be the evergreen Pine! 
  Long may the tree, in his banner that glances,
    Flourish, the shelter and grace of our line! 
        Heaven send it happy dew,
        Earth lend it sap anew,
    Gayly to bourgeon, and broadly to grow,
        While every Highland glen
        Sends our shouts back again,
    “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

  Ours is no sapling chance-sown by the fountain. 
    Blooming at Beltane, in winter to fade;
  When the whirlwind has stripped every leaf on the mountain,
    The more shall Clan-Alpine exult in her shade. 
        Moored in the rifted rock,
        Proof to the tempest’s shock,
    Firmer he roots him the ruder it blow;
        Menteith and Breadalbane, then,
        Echo his praise again,
    “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”

  Proudly our pibroch has thrilled in Glen Fruin,
    And Bannachar’s groans to our slogan replied;
  Glen Luss and Ross-dhu, they are smoking in ruin,
    And the best of Loch-Lomond lie dead on her side. 
        Widow and Saxon maid
        Long shall lament our raid,
    Think of Clan-Alpine with fear and with woe;
        Lennox and Leven-glen
        Shake when they hear again,
    “Roderigh Vich Alpine dhu, ho! ieroe!”