March, march, Ettrick and Teviotdale! 
Why the de’il dinna ye march forward in order? 
March, march, Eskdale and Liddesdale! 
All the Blue Bonnets are over the Border! 
Many a banner spread
Flutters above your head,
Many a crest that is famous in story!—­
Mount and make ready, then,
Sons of the mountain glen,
Fight for the queen and our old Scottish glory.

Come from the hills where your hirsels are grazing;
Come from the glen of the buck and the roe;
Come to the crag where the beacon is blazing;
Come with the buckler, the lance, and the bow. 
Trumpets are sounding;
War-steeds are bounding;
Stand to your arms, and march in good order,
England shall many a day
Tell of the bloody fray,
When the Blue Bonnets came over the Border.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

* * * * *

THE EXILE’S SONG.

  Oh! why left I my hame? 
    Why did I cross the deep? 
  Oh! why left I the land
    Where my forefathers sleep? 
  I sigh for Scotia’s shore,
    And I gaze across the sea,
  But I canna get a blink
    O’ my ain countrie.

  The palm-tree waveth high,
    And fair the myrtle springs;
  And, to the Indian maid,
    The bulbul sweetly sings. 
  But I dinna see the broom
    Wi’ its tassels on the lee,
  Nor hear the lintie’s sang
    O’ my ain countrie.

  Oh! here no Sabbath bell
    Awakes the Sabbath morn,
  Nor song of reapers heard
    Among the yellow corn: 
  For the tyrant’s voice is here,
    And the wail of slaverie;
  But the sun of freedom shines
    In my ain countrie.

  There’s a hope for every woe,
    And a balm for every pain,
  But the first joys o’ our heart
    Come never back again. 
  There’s a track upon the deep,
    And a path across the sea: 
  But the weary ne’er return
    To their ain countrie.

ROBERT GILFILLAN.

* * * * *

THE IRISHMAN.

  The savage loves his native shore,
    Though rude the soil and chill the air;
  Then well may Erin’s sons adore
    Their isle which nature formed so fair,
  What flood reflects a shore so sweet
    As Shannon great or pastoral Bann? 
  Or who a friend or foe can meet
    So generous as an Irishman?

  His hand is rash, his heart is warm,
    But honesty is still his guide;
  None more repents a deed of harm,
    And none forgives with nobler pride;
  He may be duped, but won’t be dared—­
    More fit to practise than to plan;
  He dearly earns his poor reward,
    And spends it like an Irishman.

  If strange or poor, for you he’ll pay,
    And guide to where you safe may be;
  If you’re his guest, while e’er you stay,
    His cottage holds a jubilee. 
  His inmost soul he will unlock,
    And if he may your secrets scan,
  Your confidence he scorns to mock,
    For faithful is an Irishman.